R  Col 

v 


MEN.  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

••SAPPER'* 


MEN,  WOMEN 
AND  GUNS 


BY, 

"SAPPER" 

AUTHOR  OF 
MICHAEL  CASSIDY,  SERGEANT 


NEW    YORK 

GROSSET    £    DUNLAP 
PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT,  1916, 
BY  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OP  AMERICA 


TO 

MY  WIFE 


435i  n 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

PROLOGUE  ....        .         V        .        *  xi 
PART  ONE 

CHAPTER 

I.    THE  MOTOR-GUN 23 

II.    PRIVATE  MEYRICK — COMPANY  IDIOT  .         .  49 

III.  SPUD  TREVOR  OF  THE  RED  HUSSARS   .         .  77 

IV.  THE  FATAL  SECOND 99 

V.    JIM  BRENT'S  V.C 121 

VI.    RETRIBUTION 155 

VII.    THE  DEATH  GRIP 183 

VIII.    JAMES  HENRY 211 

PART  TWO 

THE   LAND   OF   TOPSY  TURVY 

I.    THE  GREY  HOUSE    .....  237 
II.    THE  WOMEN  AND — THE  MEN    .         .         .243 

III.  THE  WOMAN  AND  THE  MAN     .         .         .  249 

IV.  "THE  REGIMENT" 257 

vii 


viii  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

V.     THE  CONTRAST 265 

VI.  BLACK,  WHITE,  AND — GREY      .         .         .271 

VII.  ARCHIE    AND    OTHERS       .         .         .         .287 

VIII.     ON  THE  STAFF 291 

IX.  No  ANSWER     ......     299 

X.  THE  MADNESS          .....     305 

XI.  THE  GREY  HOUSE  AGAIN        .         .         .311 


PROLOGUE 


PROLOGUE 

TWO  days  ago  a  dear  old  aunt  of  mine  asked  me 
to  describe  to  her  what  shrapnel  was  like. 

"What  does  it  feel  like  to  be  shelled  ?"  she  demanded. 
"Explain  it  to  me." 

Under  the  influence  of  my  deceased  uncle's  most 
excellent  port  I  did  so.  Soothed  and  in  that  expansive 
'frame  of  mind  induced  by  the  old  and  bold,  I  drew  her 
a  picture — vivid,  startling,  wonderful.  And  when  I 
had  finished,  the  dear  old  lady  looked  at  me. 

"Dreadful!"  she  murmured.  "Did  I  ever  tell  you 
of  the  terrible  experience  I  had  on  the  front  at  East- 
bourne, when  my  bath-chair  attendant  became  in- 
ebriated and  upset  me?" 

Slowly  and  sorrowfully  I  finished  the  decanter — and 
went  to  bed. 

But  seriously,  my  masters,  it  is  a  hard  thing  that 
my  aunt  asked  of  me.  There  are  many  things  worse 
than  shelling — the  tea-party  you  find  in  progress  on 
your  arrival  on  leave;  the  utterances  of  war  experts; 
the  non-arrival  of  the  whisky  from  England.  But  all 

of  those  can  be  imagined  by  people  who  have  not  suf- 

xi 


xii  PROLOGUE 

f  ered ;  they  have  a  standard,  a  measure  of  comparison. 
Shelling — no. 

The  explosion  of  a  howitzer  shell  near  you  is  a  defi- 
nite, actual  fact — which  is  unlike  any  other  fact  in  the 
world,  except  the  explosion  of  another  howitzer  shell 
still  nearer.  Many  have  attempted  to  describe  the  noise 
it  makes  as  the  most  explainable  part  about  it.  And 
then  you're  no  wiser. 

Listen.  Stand  with  me  at  the  Menin  Gate  of  Ypres 
and  listen.  Through  a  cutting  a  train  is  roaring  on 
its  way.  Rapidly  it  rises  in  a  great  swelling  crescendo 
as  it  dashes  into  the  open,  and  then  its  journey  stops 
on  some  giant  battlement — stops  in  a  peal  of  deafen- 
ing thunder  just  overhead.  The  shell  has  burst,  and 
the  echoes  in  that  town  of  death  die  slowly  away — 
reverberating  like  a  sullen  sea  that  lashes  against  a 
rock-bound  coast. 

And  yet  what  does  it  convey  to  anyone  who 
patronises  inebriated  bath-chair  men?  .  .  . 

Similarly — shrapnel!  ''The  Germans  were  search- 
ing the  road  with  'whizz-bangs/  '  A  common  remark, 
an  ordinary  utterance  in  a  letter,  taken  by  fond  parents 
as  an  unpleasing  affair  such  as  the  cook  giving  notice. 

Come  with  me  to  a  spot  near  Ypres;  come,  and  we 
will  take  our  evening  walk  together. 

"They're  a  bit  lively  farther  up  the  road,  sir."  The 
corporal  of  military  police  stands  gloomily  at  a  cross- 


PROLOGUE  xiii 

roads,  his  back  against  a  small  wayside  shrine.  A 
passing  shell  unroofed  it  many  weeks  ago;  it  stands 
there  surrounded  by  debris — the  image  of  the  Virgin, 
chipped  and  broken.  Just  a  little  monument  of  deso- 
lation in  a  ruined  country,  but  pleasant  to  lean  against 
when  it's  between  you  and  German  guns. 

Let  us  go  on,  it's  some  way  yet  before  we  reach  the 
dug-out  by  the  third  dead  horse.  In  front  of  us 
stretches  a  long,  straight  road,  flanked  on  each  side  by 
poplars.  In  the  middle  there  is  pave.  At  intervals,  a 
few  small  holes,  where  the  stones  have  been  shattered 
and  hurled  away  by  a  bursting  shell  and  only  the 
muddy  grit  remains  hollowed  out  to  a  depth  of  two 
feet  or  so,  half -full  of  water.  At  the  bottom  an  empty 
tin  of  bully,  ammunition  clips,  numbers  of  biscuits — 
sodden  and  muddy.  Altogether  a  good  obstacle  to  take 
with  the  front  wheel  of  a  car  at  night. 

A  little  farther  on,  beside  the  road,  in  a  ruined,  deso- 
late cottage  two  men  are  resting  for  a  while,  smoking. 
The  dirt  and  mud  of  the  trenches  is  thick  on  them,  and 
one  of  them  is  contemplatively  scraping  his  boot  with 
his  knife  and  fork.  Otherwise,  not  a  soul,  not  a  living 
soul  in  sight;  though  away  to  the  left  front,  through 
glasses,  you  can  see  two  people,  a  man  and  a  woman, 
labouring  in  the  fields.  And  the  only  point  of  interest 
about  them  is  that  between  you  and  them  run  the  two 
motionless,  stagnant  lines  of  men  who  for  months  have 


xiv  PROLOGUE 

faced  one  another.  Those  two  labourers  are  on  the 
other  side  of  the  German  trenches. 

The  setting  sun  is  glinting  on  the  little  crumbling 
village  two  or  three  hundred  yards  ahead,  and  as  you 
walk  towards  it  in  the  still  evening  air  your  steps  ring 
loud  on  the  pave.  On  each  side  the  flat,  neglected  fields 
stretch  away  from  the  road;  the  drains  beside  it  are 
choked  with  weeds  and  refuse;  and  here  and  there  one 
of  the  gaunt  trees,  split  in  two  half-way  up  by  a  shell, 
has  crashed  into  its  neighbour  or  fallen  to  the  ground. 
A  peaceful  summer's  evening  which  seems  to  give  the 
lie  to  our  shrine-leaner.  And  yet,  to  one  used  to  the 
peace  of  England,  it  seems  almost  too  quiet,  almost 
unnatural. 

Suddenly,  out  of  the  blue  there  comes  a  sharp, 
whizzing  noise,  and  almost  before  youVe  heard  it  there 
is  a  crash,  and  from  the  village  in  front  there  rises  a 
cloud  of  dust.  A  shell  has  burst  on  impact  on  one 
of  the  few  remaining  houses ;  some  slates  and  tiles  fall 
into  the  road,  and  round  the  hole  torn  out  of  the  slop- 
ing roof  there  hangs  a  whitish-yellow  cloud  of  smoke. 
In  quick  succession  come  half  a  dozen  more,  some 
bursting  on  the  ruined  cottages  as  they  strike,  some 
bursting  above  them  in  the  air.  More  clouds  of  dust 
rise  from  the  deserted  street,  small  avalanches  of  de- 
bris cascade  into  the  road,  and,  above,  three  or  four 
thick  white  smoke-clouds  drift  slowly  across  the  sky. 


PROLOGUE 


xv 


This  is  the  moment  at  which  it  is  well — unless  time 
is  urgent — to  pause  and  reflect  awhile.  If  you  must 
go  on,  a  detour  is  strongly  to  be  recommended.  The 
Germans  are  shelling  the  empty  village  just  in  front 
with  shrapnel,  and  who  are  you  to  interpose  yourself 
between  him  and  his  chosen  target?  But  if  in  no  par- 
ticular hurry,  then  it  were  wise  to  dally  gracefully 
against  a  tree,  admiring  the  setting  sun,  until  he  de- 
sists; when  you  may  in  safety  resume  your  walk. 
But — do  not  forget  that  he  may  not  stick  to  the  village, 
and  that  whizz-bangs  give  no  time.  That  is  why  I 
specified  a  tree,  and  not  the  middle  of  the  road.  It's 
nearer  the  ditch. 

Suddenly,  without  a  second's  warning,  they  shift 
their  target.  Whizz-bang !  Duck,  you  blighter !  Into 
the  ditch.  Quick !  Move !  Hang  your  bottle  of  white 
wine !  Get  down !  Cower !  Emulate  the  mole !  This 
isn't  the  village  in  front  now — he's  shelling  the  road 
you're  standing  on!  There's  one  burst  on  impact  in 
the  middle  of  the  pave  forty  yards  in  front  of  you,  and 
another  in  the  air  just  over  your  head.  And  there  are 
more  coming — don't  make  any  mistake.  That  short, 
sharp  whizz  every  few  seconds — the  bang !  bang !  bang ! 
seems  to  be  going  on  all  around  you.  A  thing  hums 
past  up  in  the  air,  with  a  whistling  noise,  leaving  a  trail 
of  sparks  behind  it — one  of  the  fuses.  Later,  the 


xvi  PROLOGUE 

curio-hunter  may  find  it  nestling  by  a  tun*  j.  He  may 
have  it. 

With  a  vicious  thud  a  jagged  piecr  11  buries 

itself  in  the  ground  at  your  feet;  aiiu.  almost  simul- 
taneously the  bullets  from  a  well-burst  one  cut  through 
the  trees  above  you  and  ping  against  the  road,  thudding 
into  the  earth  around.  No  more  impact  ones — they've 
got  the  range.  Our  pessimistic  friend  at  the  cross- 
roads spoke  the  truth ;  they're  quite  lively.  Everything 
bursting  beautifully  above  the  road  about  forty  feet 
up.  Bitter  thought — if  only  the  blighters  knew  that  it 
was  empty  save  for  your  wretched  and  unworthy  self 
cowering  in  a  ditch,  with  a  bottle  of  white  wine  in  your 
pocket  and  your  head  down  a  rat-hole,  surely  they 
wouldn't  waste  their  ammunition  so  reprehensibly ! 

Then,  suddenly,  they  stop,  and  as  the  last  white  puff 
of  smoke  drifts  slowly  away  you  cautiously  lift  your 
head  and  peer  towards  the  village.  Have  they  fin- 
ished? Will  it  be  safe  to  resume  your  interrupted 
promenade  in  a  dignified  manner?  Or  will  you  give 
them  another  minute  or  two?  Almost  have  you  de- 
cided to  do  so  when  to  your  horror  you  perceive  com- 
ing towards  you  through  the  village  itself  two  officers. 
What  a  position  to  be  discovered  in!  True,  only  the 
very  young  or  the  mentally  deficient  scorn  cover  when 
shelling  is  in  progress.  But  of  course,  just  at  the 
moment  when  you'd  welcome  a  shell  to  account  for 


PROLOGUE  xvii 

your  propi  .ity  with  the  rat-hole,  the  blighters  have 
stopped.  Nc  and  breaks  the  stillness,  save  the  steps 
ringing  towafr\you — and  it  looks  silly  to  be  found 
in  a  ditch  for  n&  apparent  reason. 

Then,  as  suddenly  as  before  comes  salvation.  Just 
as  with  infinite  stealth  you  endeavour  to  step  out  non- 
chalantly from  behind  a  tree,  as  if  you  were  part  of 
the  scenery — bang!  crash!  from  in  front.  Cheer-oh! 
the  village  again,  the  church  this  time.  A  shower  of 
bricks  and  mortar  comes  down  like  a  landslip,  and  if 
you  are  quick  you  may  just  see  two  black  streaks  go 
to  ground.  From  the  vantage-point  of  your  tree  you 
watch  a  salvo  of  shells  explode  in,  on,  or  about  the 
temporary  abode  of  those  two  officers.  You  realise 
from  what  you  know  of  the  Hun  that  this  salvo  prob- 
ably concludes  the  evening  hate;  and  the  opportunity 
is  too  good  to  miss.  Edging  rapidly  along  the  road — • 
keeping  close  to  the  ditch — you  approach  the  houses. 
Your  position,  you  feel,  is  now  strategically  sound, 
with  regard  to  the  wretched  pair  cowering  behind 
rubble  heaps.  You  even  desire  revenge  for  your  mental 
anguish  when  discovery  in  the  rodent's  lair  seemed 
certain.  So  light  a  cigarette — if  you  didn't  drop  them 
all  when  you  went  to  ground  yourself;  if  you  did — • 
whistle  some  snappy  tune  as  you  stride  jauntily  into 
the  village. 

Don't  go  too  fast  or  you  may  miss  them ;  but  should 


xviii  PROLOGUE 

you  see  a  head  peer  from  behind  a  kitchen-range  ex- 
press no  surprise.  Just — "Toppin'  evening,  ain't  it? 
Getting  furniture  for  the  dug-out — what  ?"  To  linger 
is  bad  form,  but  it  is  quite  permissible  to  ask  his  com- 
panion— seated  in  a  torn-up  drain — if  the  ratting  is 
good.  Then  pass  on  in  a  leisurely  manner,  but — when 
you're  round  the  corner,  run  like  a  hare.  With  these 
cursed  Germans,  you  never  know* 

Night — and  a  working-party  stretching  away  over 
a  ploughed  field  are  digging  a  communication  trench. 
The  great  green  flares  lob  up  half  a  mile  away,  a 
watery  moon  shines  on  the  bleak  scene.  Suddenly  a 
noise  like  the  tired  sigh  of  some  great  giant,  a  scorch- 
ing sheet  of  flame  that  leaps  at  you  out  of  the  dark- 
ness, searing  your  very  brain,  so  close  does  it  seem; 
the  ping  of  death  past  your  head ;  the  clatter  of  shovel 
and  pick  next  you  as  a  muttered  curse  proclaims  a 
man  is  hit ;  a  voice  from  down  the  line :  "Gawd !  Old 
Ginger's  took  it.  'Old  up,  mate.  Say,  blokes,  Ging- 
ger's  done  in!"  Aye — it's  worse  at  night. 

Shrapnel!  Woolly,  fleecy  puffs  of  smoke  floating 
gently  down  wind,  getting  more  and  more  attenuated, 
gradually  disappearing,  while  below  each  puff  an  oval 
of  ground  has  been  plastered  with  bullets.  And  it's 
when  the  ground  inside  the  oval  is  full  of  men  that 
the  damage  is  done. 


PROLOGUE  xix: 

Not  you  perhaps — but  someone.  Next  time — maybe 
you. 

And  that,  methinks,  is  an  epitome  of  other  things 
besides  shrapnel.  It's  all  the  war  to  the  men  who  fight 
and  the  women  who  wait. 


PART  ONE 


PART  ONE 
CHAPTER  I 

THE  IMOTOR-GUN 

NOTHING  in  this  war  has  so  struck  those  who 
have  fought  in  it  as  its  impersonal  nature. 
From  the  day  the  British  Army  moved  north,  and  the 
first  battle  of  Ypres  commenced — and  with  it  trench 
warfare  as  we  know  it  now — it  has  been,  save  for  a 
few  interludes,  a  contest  between  automatons,  backed 
by  every  known  scientific  device.  Personal  rancour 
against  the  opposing  automatons  separated  by  twenty 
or  thirty  yards  of  smelling  mud — who  stew  in  the 
same  discomfort  as  yourself — is  apt  to  give  way  to 
an  acute  animosity  against  life  in  general,  and  the 
accursed  fate  in  particular  which  so  foolishly  decided 
your  sex  at  birth.  But,  though  rare,  there  have  been 
cases  of  isolated  encounters,  where  men — with  the 
blood  running  hot  in  their  veins — have  got  down  to 

23 


N*  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 


hand-grips,  and  grappling  backwards  and  forwards  in 
some  cellar  or  dugout,  have  fought  to  the  death,  man 
to  man,  as  of  old.  Such  a  case  has  recently  come  to 
my  knowledge,  a  case  at  once  bizarre  and  unique:  a 
case  where  the  much-exercised  arm  of  coincidence 
showed  its  muscles  to  a  remarkable  degree.  Only  quite 
lately  have  I  found  out  all  the  facts,  and  now  at  Dick 
O'Rourke's  special  request  I  am  putting  them  on  pa- 
per. True,  they  are  intended  to  reach  the  eyes  of 
one  particular  person,  but  .  .  .  the  personal  column 
in  the  Times  interests  others  besides  the  lady  in  the 
magenta  skirt,  who  will  eat  a  banana  at  3.30  daily  by 
the  Marble  Arch! 

And  now,  at  the  very  outset  of  my  labours,  I  find 
myself  —  to  my  great  alarm  —  committed  to  the  placing 
on  paper  of  a  love  scene.  O'Rourke  insists  upon  it: 
he  says  the  whole  thing  will  fall  flat  if  I  don't  put  it 
in;  he  promises  that  he  will  supply  the  local  colour. 
In  advance  I  apologise  :  my  own  love  affairs  are  suffi- 
ciently trying  without  endeavouring  to  describe  his  —  - 
and  with  that,  here  goes. 

I  will  lift  my  curtain  on  the  principals  of  this  little 
drama,  and  open  the  scene  at  Giro's  in  London.  On  the 
evening  of  April  2ist,  1915,  in  the  corner  of  that  de- 
lectable resort,  farthest  away  from  the  coon  band,  sat 
Dickie  O'Rourke.  That  afternoon  he  had  stepped 


THE  MOTOR-GUN  25 

from  the  boat  at  Folkestone  on  seven  days'  leave,  and 
now  in  the  boiled  shirt  of  respectability  he  once  again 
smelled  the  smell  of  London. 

With  him  was  a  girl.  I  have  never  seen  her,  but 
from  his  description  I  cannot  think  that  I  have  lived 
until  this  oversight  is  rectified.  Moreover,  my  lady, 
as  this  is  written  especially  for  your  benefit,  I  hereby 
warn  you  that  I  propose  to  remedy  my  omission  as 
soon  as  possible. 

And  yet  with  a  band  that  is  second  to  none;  with 
food  wonderful  and  divine ;  with  the  choicest  fruit  of 
the  grape,  and — to  top  all — with  the  girl,  Dickie  did 
not  seem  happy.  As  he  says,  it  was  not  to  be  won- 
dered at.  He  had  landed  at  Folkestone  meaning  to 
propose;  he  had  carried  out  his  intention  over  the 
fish — and  after  that  the  dinner  had  lost  its  savour. 
She  had  refused  him — definitely  and  finally;  and  Dick 
found  himself  wishing  for  France  again — France  and 
forgetfulness.  Only  he  knew  he'd  never  forget. 

"The  dinner  is  to  monsieur's  taste?"  The  head- 
waiter  paused  attentively  by  the  table. 

"Very  good,"  growled  Dick,  looking  savagely  at 
an  ice  on  his  plate.  "Oh,  Moyra,"  he  muttered,  as 
the  man  passed  on,  "it's  meself  is  finished  entoirely. 
And  I  was  feeling  that  happy  on  the  boat;  as  I  saw 
the  white  cliffs  coming  nearer  and  nearer,  I  said  to 
meself,  'Dick,  me  boy,  in  just  four  hours  you'll  be 


26  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

with  the  dearest,  sweetest  girl  that  God  ever  sent  from 
the  heavens  to  brighten  the  lives  of  dull  dogs  like 
yourself/  " 

"You're  not  dull,  Dick.  You're  not  to  say  those 
things — you're  a  dear."  The  girl's  eyes  seemed  a  bit 
misty  as  she  bent  over  her  plate. 

"And  now !"  He  looked  at  her  pleadingly.  "  Tis 
the  light  has  gone  out  of  my  life.  Ah!  me  dear,  is 
there  no  hope  for  Dickie  O'Rourke?  Me  estate  is 
mostly  bog,  and  the  ould  place  has  fallen  down,  sav- 
ing only  the  stable — but  there's  the  breath  of  the  seas 
that  comes  over  the  heather  in  the  morning,  and  there's 
the  violet  of  your  deaf  eyes  in  the  hills.  It's  not  wor- 
rying you  that  I'd  be — but  is  there  no  hope  at  all,  at 
all?" 

The  girl  turned  towards  him,  smiling  a  trifle  sadly. 
There  was  woman's  pity  in  the  lovely  eyes:  her  lips 
were  trembling  a  little.  "Dear  old  Dick,"  she  whis- 
pered, and  her  hand  rested  lightly  on  his  for  a  moment. 
"Dear  old  Dick,  I'm  sorry.  If  I'd  only  known 

sooner "  She  broke  off  abruptly  and  fell  to  gazing 

at  the  floor. 

"Then  there  is  someone  else !"  The  man  spoke  al- 
most fiercely. 

Slowly  she  nodded  her  head,  but  she  did  not  speak. 

"Who  is  it?" 


THE  MOTOR-GUN  27 

"I  don't  know  that  you've  got  any  right  to  ask  me 
that,  Dick,"  she  answered,  a  little  proudly. 

"What's  the  talk  of  right  between  you  and  me?  Do 
you  suppose  I'll  let  any  cursed  social  conventions  stand 
between  me  and  the  woman  I  love?"  She  could  see 
his  hand  trembling,  though  outwardly  he  seemed  quite 
calm.  And  then  his  voice  dropped  to  a  tender,  plead- 
ing note — and  again  the  soft,  rich  brogue  of  the  Irish- 
man crept  in — that  wonderful  tone  that  brings  with 
it  the  music  of  the  fairies  from  the  hazy  blue  hills  of 
Connemara. 

"Acushla  mine,"  he  whispered,  "would  I  be  hurting 
a  hair  of  your  swate  head,  or  bringing  a  tear  to  them 
violet  pools  ye  calls  your  eyes?  'Tis  meself  that  is 
in  the  wrong  entoirely — but,  mavourneen,  I  just  wor- 
ship you.  And  the  thought  of  the  other  fellow  is 
driving  me  crazy.  Will  ye  not  be  telling  me  his 
name?" 

"Dick,  I  can't,"  she  whispered,  piteously.  "You 
wouldn't  understand." 

"And  why  would  I  not  understand?"  he  answered, 
grimly.  "Is  it  something  shady  he  has  done  to 
you? — for  if  it  is,  by  the  Holy  Mother,  I'll  murder 
him." 

"No,  no,  it's  nothing  shady.  But  I  can't  tell  you, 
Dick;  and  oh,  Dick!  I'm  just  wretched,  and  I  don't 
know  what  to  do."  The  tears  were  very  near. 


28  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

A  whimsical  look  came  into  his  face  as  he  watched 
her.  "Moyra,  me  dear;  'tis  about  ten  shillings  apiece 
we're  paying  for  them  ices;  and  if  you  splash  them 
with  your  darling  tears,  the  chef  will  give  notice  and 
that  coon  with  the  banjo  will  strike  work." 

"You  dear,  Dick,"  she  whispered,  after  a  moment, 
while  a  smile  trembled  round  her  mouth.  "I  nearly 
made  a  fool  of  myself." 

"Divil  a  bit,"  he  answered.  "But  let  us  be  after  dis- 
cussing them  two  fair  things  yonder  while  we  gets  on 
with  the  ices.  Tis  the  most  suitable  course  for  con- 
templating the  dears ;  and,  anyway,  we'll  take  no  more 
risks  until  we're  through  with  them." 

And  so  with  a  smile  on  his  lips  and  a  jest  on  his 
tongue  did  a  gallant  gentleman  cover  the  ache  in  his 
heart  and  the  pain  in  his  eyes,  and  felt  more  than  re- 
warded by  the  look  of  thanks  he  got.  It  was  not  for 
him  to  ask  for  more  than  she  would  freely  give;  and 
if  there  was  another  man — well,  he  was  a  lucky  dog. 
But  if  he'd  played  the  fool — yes,  by  Heaven!  if  he'd 
played  the  fool,  that  was  a  different  pair  of  shoes  alto- 
gether. His  forehead  grew  black  at  the  thought,  and 
mechanically  his  fists  clenched. 

"Dick,  I'd  like  to  tell  you  just  how  things  are." 

He  pulled  himself  together  and  looked  at  the  girl. 

"It  is  meself  that  is  at  your  service,  my  lady,"  he 
answered,  quietly. 


THE  MOTOR-GUN  29 

"I'm  engaged.    But  it's  a  secret." 

His  jaw  dropped.  "Engaged !"  he  faltered.  "But — - 
who  to?  And  why  is  it  a  secret?" 

"I  can't  tell  you  who  to.  I  promised  to  keep  it 
secret;  and  then  he  suddenly  went  away  and  the  war 
broke  out  and  I've  never  seen  him  since." 

"But  you've  heard  from  him?" 

She  bit  her  lip  and  looked  away.  "Not  a  line,"  she 
faltered. 

"But — I  don't  understand."  His  tone  was  infinitely 
tender.  "Why  hasn't  he  written  to  you  ?  Violet  girl, 
why  would  he  not  have  written?" 

"You  see,  he's  a "     She  seemed  to  be  nerving 

herself  to  speak.    "You  see,  he's  a  German !" 

It  was  out  at  last. 

"Mother  of  God!"  Dick  leaned  back  in  his  chair, 
his  eyes  fixed  on  her,  his  cigarette  unheeded,  burning 
the  tablecloth.  "Do  you  love  him?" 

"Yes."  The  whispered  answer  was  hardly  audible. 
"Oh,  Dick,  I  wonder  if  you  can  understand.  It  all 
came  so  suddenly,  and  then  there  was  this  war,  and  I 
know  it's  awful  to  love  a  German,  but  I  do,  and  I  can't 
teH  anyone  but  you;  they'd  think  it  horrible  of  me. 
Oh,  Dick !  tell  me  you  understand." 

"I  understand,  little  girl,"  he  answered,  very  slowly. 
"I  understand." 

It  was  all  very  involved  and  infinitely  pathetic.    But, 


30  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

as  I  have  said  before,  Dick  O'Rourke  was  a  gallant 
gentleman. 

"It's  not  his  fault  he's  a  German,"  she  went  on  after 
a  while.  "He  didn't  start  the  war — and,  you  see,  I 
promised  him." 

That  was  the  rub — she'd  promised  him.  Truly  a 
^oman  is  a  wonderful  thing !  Very  gentle  and  patient 
was  O'Rourke  with  her  that  evening,  and  when  at  last 
he  turned  into  his  club,  he  sat  for  a  long  while  gazing 
into  the  fire.  Just  once  a  muttered  curse  escaped  his 
lips. 

"Did  you  speak  ?"  said  the  man  in  the  next  chair. 

"I  did  not"  said  O'Rourke,  and  getting  up  abruptly 
he  went  to  bed. 

At  3  p.m.  on  April  22nd  Dick  O'Rourke  received  a 
wire.  It  was  short  and  to  the  point.  "Leave  can- 
celled. Return  at  once."  He  tore  round  to  Victoria, 
found  he'd  missed  the  boat-train,  and  went  down  to 
Folkestone  on  chance.  For  the  time  Moyra  was  al- 
most forgotten.  Officers  are  not  recalled  from  short 
leave  without  good  and  sufficient  reason;  and  as  yet 
there  was  nothing  in  the  evening  papers  that  showed 
any  activity.  At  Folkestone  he  met  other  officers — 
also  recalled ;  and  when  the  boat  came  in  rumours  be- 
gan to  spread.  The  whole  line  had  fallen  back — the 


THE  MOTOR-GUN  31 

Germans  were  through  and  marching  on  Calais — a 
ghastly  defeat  had  been  sustained. 

The  morning  papers  were  a  little  more  reassuring; 
and  in  them  for  the  first  time  came  the  mention  of  the 
word  "gas."  Everything  was  vague,  but  that  some- 
thing had  happened  was  obvious,  and  also  that  that 
something  was  pretty  serious. 

One  p.m.  on  the  23rd  found  him  at  Boulogne,  ramp- 
ing like  a  bull.  An  unemotional  railway  transport  offi- 
cer told  him  that  there  was  a  very  nice  train  starting  at 
midnight,  but  that  the  leave  train  was  cancelled. 

"But,  man !"  howled  O'Rourke,  "I've  been  recalled. 
Tis  urgent !"  He  brandished  the  wire  in  his  face. 

The  R.T.O.  remained  unmoved,  and  intimated  that 
he  was  busy,  and  that  O'Rourke' s  private  history  left 
him  quite  cold.  Moreover,  he  thought  it  possible  that 
the  British  Army  might  survive  without  him  for  an- 
other day. 

In  the  general  confusion  that  ensued  on  his  replying 
that  the  said  R.T.O.  was  no  doubt  a  perfect  devil  as  a 
traveller  for  unshrinkable  underclothes,  but  that  his 
knowledge  of  the  British  Army  might  be  written  on  a 
postage-stamp,  O'Rourke  escaped,  and  ensconcing  him- 
self near  the  barrier,  guarded  by  French  sentries,  at 
the  top  of  the  hill  leading  to  St.  Omer,  he  waited  for  a 
motor-car. 

Having  stopped  two  generals  and  been  consigned 


32  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

elsewhere  for  his  pains,  he  ultimately  boarded  a  flying 
corps  lorry,  and  4  p.m.  found  him  at  St.  Omer.  And 
there — but  we  will  whisper — was  a  relative — one  of 
the  exalted  ones  of  the  earth,  who  possessed  many 
motor-cars,  great  and  small. 

Dick  chose  the  second  Rolls-Royce,  and  having  pur- 
sued his  unit  to  the  farm  where  he'd  left  it  two  days 
before,  he  chivied  it  round  the  country,  and  at  length 
traced  it  to  Poperinghe. 

And  there  he  found  things  moving.  As  yet  no  one 
was  quite  sure  what  had  happened;  but  he  found  a 
solemn  conclave  of  Army  Service  Corps  officers  at- 
tached to  his  division,  and  from  them  he  gathered 
twenty  or  thirty  of  the  conflicting  rumours  that  were 
flying  round.  One  thing,  anyway,  was  clear:  the 
Huns  were  not  triumphantly  marching  on  Calais — yet 
It  was  just  as  a  charming  old  boy  of  over  fifty,  who 
had  perjured  his  soul  over  his  age  and  had  been  out 
since  the  beginning — a  standing  reproach  to  a  large 
percentage  of  the  so-called  youth  of  England — it  was 
just  as  he  suggested  a  little  dinner  in  that  hospitable 
town,  prior  to  going  up  with  the  supply  lorries,  that 
with  a  droning  roar  a  twelve-inch  shell  came  crashing 
into  the  square.  .  .  . 

That  night  at  n  p.m.  Dick  stepped  out  of  another 
car  into  a  ploughed  field  just  behind  the  little  village 
of  Woesten,  and,  having  trodden  on  his  major's  face 


THE  MOTOR-GUN  33 

and  unearthed  his  servant,  lay  down  by  the  dying  fire 
to  get  what  sleep  he  could.  Now  and  again  a  horse 
whinnied  near  by ;  a  bit  rattled,  a  man  cursed ;  for  the 
unit  was  ready  to  move  at  a  moment's  notice  and  the 
horses  were  saddled  up.  The  fire  died  out — from  close 
by  a  battery  was  firing,  and  the  sky  was  dancing  with 
the  flashes  of  bursting  shells  like  summer  lightning 
flickering  in  the  distance.  And  with  his  head  on  a 
sharp  stone  and  another  in  his  back  Dick  O'Rourke  fell 
asleep  and  dreamed  of — but  dreams  are  silly  things  to 
describe.  It  was  just  as  he'd  thrown  the  hors-d'oeuvres 
at  the  head-waiter  of  Giro's,  who  had  suddenly  be- 
come the  hated  German  rival,  and  was  wiping  the  po- 
tato salad  off  Moyra's  face,  which  it  had  hit  by  mis- 
take, with  the  table-cloth,  that  with  a  groan  he  turned 
on  his  other  side — only  to  exchange  the  stones  for  a 
sardine  tin  and  a  broken  pickle  bottle.  Which  is  really 
no  more  foolish  than  the  rest  of  life  nowadays.  .  .  . 

And  now  for  a  moment  I  must  go  back  and,  leaving 
our  hero,  describe  shortly  the  events  that  led  up  to  the 
sending  of  the  wire  that  recalled  him. 

Early  in  the  morning  of  April  22nd  the  Germans 
launched  at  that  part  of  the  French  line  which  lay 
in  front  of  the  little  villages  of  Elverdinge  and  Brielen, 
a  yellowish-green  cloud  of  gas,  which  rolled  slowly 
over  the  intervening  ground  between  the  trenches, 


34  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

carried  on  its  way  by  a  faint,  steady  breeze.  I  do 
not  intend  to  describe  the  first  use  of  that  infamous 
invention — it  has  been  done  too  often  before.  But, 
for  the  proper  understanding  of  what  follows,  it 
is  essential  for  me  to  go  into  a  few  details.  Utterly 
unprepared  for  what  was  to  come,  the  French  divi- 
sions gazed  for  a  short  while  spellbound  at  the  strange 
phenomenon  they  saw  coming  slowly  towards  them. 
Like  some  liquid  the  heavy-coloured  vapour  poured 
relentlessly  into  the  trenches,  filled  them,  and  passed 
on.  For  a  few  seconds  nothing  happened ;  the  sweet- 
smelling  stuff  merely  tickled  their  nostrils ;  they  failed 
to  realise  the  danger.  Then,  with  inconceivable  rapid- 
ity, the  gas  worked,  and  blind  panic  spread.  Hun- 
dreds, after  a  dreadful  fight  for  air,  became  uncon- 
scious and  died  where  they  lay — a  death  of  hideous 
torture,  with  the  frothing  bubbles  gurgling  in  their 
throats  and  the  foul  liquid  welling  up  in  their  lungs. 
With  blackened  faces  and  twisted  limbs  one  by  one 
they  drowned — only  that  which  drowned  them  came 
from  inside  and  not  from  out.  Others,  staggering, 
falling,  lurching  on,  and  of  their  ignorance  keeping 
pace  with  the  gas,  went  back.  A  hail  of  rifle-fire  and 
shrapnel  mowed  them  down,  and  the  line  was  broken. 
There  was  nothing  on  the  British  left — their  flank 
was  up  in  the  air.  The  north-east  corner  of  the 
salient  round  Ypres  had  been  pierced.  From  in  front 


THE  MOTOR-GUN  35 

of  St.  Julian,  away  up  north  towards  Boesienge,  there 
was  no  one  in  front  of  the  Germans. 

It  is  not  my  intention  to  do  more  than  mention 
the  rushing  up  of  the  cavalry  corps  and  the  Indians 
to  fill  the  gap;  the  deathless  story  of  the  Canadians 
who,  surrounded  and  hemmed  in,  fought  till  they 
died  against  overwhelming  odds;  the  fate  of  the 
Northumbrian  division — fresh  from  home — who  were 
rushed  up  in  support,  and  the  field  behind  Fortuin 
where  they  were  caught  by  shrapnel,  and  what  was 
left.  These  things  are  outside  the  scope  of  my  story. 
Let  us  go  back  to  the  gap. 

Hard  on  the  heels  of  the  French  came  the  Germans 
advancing.  For  a  mile  or  so  they  pushed  on,  and 
why  they  stopped  when  they  did  is — as  far  as  I  am 
concerned — one  of  life's  little  mysteries.  Perhaps 
the  utter  success  of  their  gas  surprised  even  them; 
perhaps  they  anticipated  some  trap;  perhaps  the  in- 
credible heroism  of  the  Canadians  in  hanging  up  the 
German  left  caused  their  centre  to  push  on  too  far 
and  lose  touch ;  perhaps — but,  why  speculate  ?  I  don't 
know,  though  possibly  those  in  High  Places  may.  The 
fact  remains  they  did  stop;  their  advantage  was  lost 
and  the  situation  was  saved. 

Such  'was  the  state  of  affairs  when  O'Rourke 
opened  his  eyes  on  the  morning  of  Saturday,  April 


36  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

24th.  The  horses  were  dimly  visible  through  the 
heavy  mist,  his  blankets  were  wringing  wet,  and  hazily 
he  wondered  why  he  had  ever  been  born.  Then  the 
cook  dropped  the  bacon  in  the  fire,  and  he  groaned 
with  anguish;  visions  of  yesterday's  grilled  kidneys 
and  hot  coffee  rose  before  him  and  mocked.  By  six 
o'clock  he  had  fed,  and  sitting  on  an  overturned  bis- 
cuit-box beside  the  road  he  watched  three  batteries 
of  French  75's  pass  by  and  disappear  in  the  distance. 
At  intervals  he  longed  to  meet  the  man  who  invented 
war.  It  must  be  remembered  that,  though  I  have 
given  the  situation  as  it  really  was,  for  the  better 
understanding  of  the  story,  the  facts  at  the  time 
were  not  known  at  all  clearly.  The  fog  of  war  still 
wrapped  in  oblivion — as  far  as  regimental  officers 
were  concerned,  at  any  rate — the  events  which  were 
taking  place  within  a  few  miles  of  them. 

When,  therefore,  Dick  O'Rourke  perceived  an  un- 
shaven and  unwashed  warrior,  garbed  as  a  gunner 
officer,  coming  down  the  road  from  Woesten,  and, 
moreover,  recognised  him  as  one  of  his  own  term  at 
the  "Shop,"  known  to  his  intimates  as  the  Land  Crab, 
he  hailed  him  with  joy. 

"All  hail,  oh,  crustacean!"  he  cried,  as  the  other 
came  abreast  of  him.  "Whither  dost  walk  so 
blithely?" 


THE  MOTOR-GUN  37 

"Halloa,  Dick!"  The  gunner  paused.  "You  haven't 
seen  my  major  anywhere,  have  you?" 

"Not  that  I'm  aware  of,  but  as  I  don't  know  your 
major  from  Adam,  my  evidence  may  not  be  reliable. 
What  news  from  the  seat  of  war?" 

"None  that  I  know  of — except  this  cursed  gun, 
that  is  rapidly  driving  me  to  drink." 

"What  cursed  gun?  I  am  fresh  from  Giro's  and 
the  haunts  of  love  and  ease.  Expound  to  me  your 
enigma,  my  Land  Crab." 

"Haven't  you  heard?  When  the  Germans " 

He  stopped  suddenly.  "Listen !"  Perfectly  clear  from 
the  woods  to  the  north  of  them — the  woods  that  lie 
to  the  west  of  the  Woesten-Oostvleteren  road,  for 
those  who  may  care  for  maps — there  came  the  dis- 
tinctive boom !  crack !  of  a  smallish  gun.  Three  more 
shots,  and  then  silence.  The  gunner  turned  to  Dick. 

"There  you  are — that's  the  gun." 

"But  how  nice!     Only,  why  curse  it?" 

"Principally  because  it's  German;  and  those  four 
shots  that  you  have  just  heard  have  by  this  time  burst 
in  Poperinghe." 

"What!"  O'Rourke  looked  at  him  in  amazement. 
"Is  it  my  leg  you  would  be  pulling?" 

"Certainly  not.  When  the  Germans  came  on  in 
the  first  blind  rush  after  the  French  two  small  guns 
on  motor  mountings  got  through  behind  our  lines. 


* 

38  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

One  was  completely  wrecked  with  its  detachment. 
The  motor  mounting  of  the  other  you  can  see  lying 
in  a  pond  about  a  mile  up  the  road.  The  gun  is 
there."  He  pointed  to  the  wood. 

"And  the  next!"  said  O'Rourke.  "D'you  mean 
to  tell  me  that  there  is  a  German  gun  in  that  wood 
firing  at  Poperinghe?  Why,  hang  it,  man!  it's  three 
miles  behind  our  lines."  , 

"Taking  the  direction  those  shells  are  coming  from, 
the  distance  from  Poperinghe  to  that  gun  must  be 
more  than  ten  miles — if  the  gun  is  behind  the  German 
trenches.  Your  gunnery  is  pretty  rotten,  I  know,  but 
if  you  know  of  any  two-inch  gun  that  shoots  ten 
miles,  I'll  be  obliged  if  you'll  give  me  some  lessons." 
The  gunner  lit  a  cigarette.  "Man,  we  know  it's  not 
one  of  ours,  we  know  where  they  all  are;  we  know  it's 
a  Hun." 

"Then,  what  in  the  name  of  fortune  are  ye  stand- 
ing here  for  talking  like  an  ould  woman  with  the 
indigestion?  Away  with  you,  and  lead  us  to  him, 
and  don't  go  chivying  after  your  bally  major."  Dick 
shouted  for  his  revolver.  "If  there's  a  gun  in  that 
wood,  bedad!  we'll  gun  it." 

"My  dear  old  flick,"  said  the  other,  "don't  get 
excited.  The  woods  have  been  searched  with  a  line 
of  men — twice;  and  devil  the  sign  of  the  gun.  You 
don't  suppose  they've  got  a  concrete  mounting  and  the 


THE  MOTOR-GUN  39 

Prussian  flag  flying  on  a  pole,  do  you?  The  detach- 
ment are  probably  dressed  as  Belgian  peasants,  and 
the  gun  is  dismounted  and  hidden  when  it's  not  fir- 
ing." 

But  O'Rourke  would  have  none  of  it.  "Get  off 
to  your  major,  then,  and  have  your  mothers'  meeting. 
Then  come  back  to  me,  and  I'll  give  you  the  gun. 
And  borrow  a  penknife  and  cut  your  beard — you'll 
be  after  frightening  the  natives." 

That  evening  a  couple  of  shots  rang  out  from  the 
same  wood,  two  of  the  typical  shots  of  a  small  gun. 
And  then  there  was  silence.  A  group  of  men  stand- 
ing by  an  estaminet  on  the  road  affirmed  to  having 
heard  three  faint  shots  afterwards  like  the  crack  of 
a  sporting-gun  or  revolver;  but  in  the  general  tur- 
moil of  an  evening  hate  which  was  going  on  at  the 
same  time  no  one  thought  much  about  it.  Half  an 
hour  later  Dick  O'Rourke  returned,  and  there  was 
a  strange  look  in  his  eyes.  His  coat  was  torn,  his 
collar  and  shirt  were  ripped  open,  and  his  right  eye 
was  gradually  turning  black.  Of  his  doings  he  would 
vouchsafe  no  word.  Only,  as  we  sat  down  round  the 
fire  to  dinner,  the  gunner  subaltern  of  the  morning 
passed  again  up  the  road. 

"Got  the  gun  yet,  Dick?"  he  chaffed. 

"I  have  that,"  answered  O'Rourke,  "also  the  de- 
tachment." 


40  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

The  Land  Crab  paused.     "Where  are  they?" 

"The  gun  is  in  a  pond  where  you  won't  find  it,  and 
the  detachment  are  dead — except  one  who  escaped." 

"Yes,  I  don't  think."  The  gunner  laughed  and 
passed  on. 

"You  needn't,"  answered  Dick,  "but  that  gun  will 
never  fire  again." 

It  never  did.  As  I  say,  he  would  answer  no 
questions,  and  even  amongst  the  few  people  who  had 
heard  of  the  thing  at  all,  it  soon  passed  into  the  limbo 
of  forgotten  things.  Other  and  weightier  matters 
were  afoot;  the  second  battle  of  Ypres  did  not  leave 
much  time  for  vague  conjecture.  And  so  when,  a 
few  days  ago,  the  question  was  once  again  recalled 
to  my  mind  by  no  less  a  person  than  O'Rourke  him- 
self, I  had  to  dig  in  the  archives  of  memory  for  the 
remembrance  of  an  incident  of  which  I  had  well-nigh 
lost  sight. 

"You  remember  that  gun,  Bill,"  he  remarked,  lying 
back  in  the  arm-chair  of  the  farmhouse  where  we 
were  billeted,  and  sipping  some  hot  rum — "that  Ger- 
man gun  that  got  through  in  April  and  bombarded 
Poperinghe?  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  that  gun." 
He  started  filling  his  pipe. 

"  'Tis  the  hardest  proposition  I've  ever  been  up 
against,  and  sure  I  don't  know  what  to  do  at  all." 


THE  MOTOR-GUN  41 

He  was  staring  at  the  fire.  "You  remember  the 
Land  Crab  and  how  he  told  us  the  woods  had  been 
searched?  Well,  it  didn't  take  a  superhuman  brain- 
storm to  realise  that  if  what  he  said  was  right  and 
the  Huns  were  dressed  as  Belgian  peasants,  and  the 
gun  was  a  little  one,  that  a  line  of  men  going,  through 
the  woods  had  about  as  much  chance  of  finding  them 
as  a  terrier  has  of  catching  a  tadpole  in  the  water. 
I  says  to  myself,  'Dick,  my  boy,  this  is  an  occasion 
for  stealth,  for  delicate  work,  for  finesse.'  So  off  I 
went  on  my  lonesome  and  hid  in  the  wood.  I  argued 
that  they  couldn't  be  keeping  a  permanent  watch, 
and  that  even  if  they'd  seen  me  come  in,  they'd  think 
in  time  I  had  gone  out  again,  when  they  noticed  no 
further  sign  of  me.  Also  I  guessed  they  didn't  want 
to  stir  up  a  hornet's  nest  about  their  ears  by  killing  me 
— they  wanted  no  vulgar  glare  of  publicity  upon  their 
doings.  So,  as  I  say,  I  hid  in  a  hole  and  waited.  I 
got  bored  stiff;  though,  when  all  was  said  and  done, 
it  wasn't  much  worse  than  sitting  in  that  blessed 
ploughed  field  beside  the  road.  About  five  o'clock 
I  started  cursing  myself  for  a  fool  in  listening  to  the 
story  at  all,  it  all  seemed  so  ridiculous.  Not  a  sound 
in  the  woods,  not  a  breath  of  wind  in  the  trees.  The 
guns  weren't  firing,  just  for  the  time  everything  was 
peaceful.  I'd  got  a  caterpillar  down  my  neck,  and 
I  was  just  coming  back  to  get  a  drink  and  chuck  it 


42  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

up,  when  suddenly  a  Belgian  labourer  popped  out' 
from  behind  a  tree.  There  was  nothing  peculiar  about 
him,  and  if  it  hadn't  been  for  the  Land  Crab's  story 
I'd  never  have  given  him  a  second  thought.  He  was 
just  picking  up  sticks,  but  as  I  watched  him  I  noticed 
that  every  now  and  then  he  straightened  himself  up, 
and  seemed  to  peer  around  as  if  he  was  searching 
the  undergrowth.  The  next  minute  out  came  another, 
and  he  started  the  stick-picking  stunt  too." 

Dick  paused  to  relight  his  pipe,  then  he  laughed. 
"Of  course,  the  humour  of  the  situation  couldn't  help 
striking  me.  Dick  O'Rourke  in  a  filthy  hole,  covered 
with  branches  and  bits  of  dirt,  watching  two  mangy 
old  Belgians  picking  up  wood.  But,  having  stood  it 
the  whole  day,  I  made  up  my  mind  to  wait,  at  any 
rate,  till  night.  If  only  I  could  catch  the  gun  in  action 
— even  if  the  odds  were  too  great  for  me  alone — I'd 
be  able  to  spot  the  hiding-place,  and  come  back  later 
with  a  party  and  round  them  up. 

"Then  suddenly  the  evening  hate  started — artillery 
from  all  over  the  place — and  with  it  the  Belgian 
labourers  ceased  from  plucking  sticks.  Running  down 
a  little  path,  so  close  to  me  that  I  could  almost  touch 
him,  came  one  of  them.  He  stopped  about  ten  yards 
away  where  the  dense  undergrowth  finished,  and, 
after  looking  cautiously  round,  waved  his  hand.  The 
other  one  nipped  behind  a  tree  and  called  out  some- 


THE  MOTOR-GUN  43 

thing  in  a  guttural  tone  of  voice.  And  then,  I  give 
you  my  word,  out  of  the  bowels  of  the  earth  there 
popped  up  a  little  gun  not  twenty  yards  from  where 
I'd  been  lying  the  whole  day.  By  this  time,  of  course, 
I  was  in  the  same  sort  of  condition  as  a  terrier  is 
when  he's  seen  the  cat  he  has  set  his  heart  on  shin  up 
a  tree,  having  missed  her  tail  by  half  an  inch. 

"They  clapped  her  on  a  little  mounting  quick  as 
light,  laid  her,  loaded,  and,  by  the  holy  saints!  under 
my  very  nose,  loosed  off  a  present  for  Poperinghe. 
The  man  on  guard  waved  his  hand  again,  and  bedad ! 
away  went  another.  The  next  instant  he  was  back, 
again  an  exclamation  in  German,  and  in  about  two 
shakes  the  whole  thing,  had  disappeared,  and  there 
were  the  two  labourers  picking  sticks.  I  give  you  my 
word  it  was  like  a  clown  popping  up  in  a  pantomime 
through  a  trap-door;  I  had  to  pinch  myself  to  make 
certain  I  was  awake. 

"The  next  instant  into  the  clearing  came  two  Eng- 
lish soldiers,  the  reason  evidently  of  the  sudden  dis- 
mantling. Had  they  been  armed  we'd  have  had  at 
them  then  and  there;  but,  of  course,  so  far  behind  the 
trenches,  they  had  no  rifles.  They  just  peered  round, 
saw  the  Belgians,  and  went  off  again.  I  heard  their 
steps  dying  away  in  the  distance,  and  decided  to  wait 
a  bit  longer.  The  two  men  seemed  to  be  discussing 
what  to  do,  and  ultimately  moved  behind  the  tree 


44  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

again,  where  I  could  hear  them  talking.  At  last  they 
came  to  a  decision,  and  picking  up  their  bundles  of 
sticks  came  slowly  down  the  path  past  me.  They 
were  not  going  to  fire  again  that  evening." 

Dick  smiled  reminiscently.  "Bill,  pass  the  rum. 
I'm  thirsty." 

"What  did  you  do,  Dick?"  I  asked,  eagerly. 

"What  d'you  think?  I  was  out  like  a  knife  and 
let  drive  with  my  hand-gun.  I  killed  the  first  one 
as  dead  as  mutton,  and  missed  the  second,  who  shot 
like  a  stag  into  the  undergrowth.  Gad!  It  was 
great.  I  put  two  more  where  I  thought  he  was,  but 
as  I  still  heard  him  crashing  on  I  must  have  missed 
him.  Then  I  nipped  round  the  tree  to  find  the  gun. 
The  only  thing  there  was  a  great  hole  full  of  leaves. 
I  ploughed  across  it,  thinking  it  must  be  the  other 
side,  when,  without  a  word  of  warning,  I  fell  through 
the  top — bang  through  the  top,  my  boy,  of  the  neatest 
hiding-place  you've  ever  thought  of.  The  whole  of 
the  centre  of  those  leaves  was  a  fake.  There  were 
about  two  inches  of  them  supported  on  light  hurdle- 
work.  I  was  in  the  robber's  cave  with  a  vengeance."  I 

"Was  the  gun  there?"  I  cried,  excitedly. 

"It  was.  Also  the  Hun.  The  gun  of  small  variety ; 
the  Hun  of  large — very  large.  I  don't  know  which 
of  us  was  the  more  surprised — him  or  me;  we  just 
stood  gazing  at  one  another. 


THE  MOTOR-GUN  45 

"  'Halloa,  Englishman/  he  said ;  'come  to  leave  a 
card?' 

"  'Quite  right,  Boche,'  I  answered.    'A  p.p.c.  one.' 

"I  was  rather  pleased  with  that  touch  at  the  time, 
old  son.  I  was  just  going  to  elaborate  it,  and  point 
out  that  he — as  the  dear  departing — should  really  do 
it,  when  he  was  at  me. 

"Bill,  my  boy,  you  should  have  seen  that  fight. 
Like  a  fool,  I  never  saw  his  revolver  lying  on  the 
table,  and  I'd  shoved  my  own  back  in  my  holster. 
He  got  it  in  his  right  hand,  and  I  got  his  right  wrist 
in  my  left.  We'd  each  got  the  other  by  the  throat, 
and  one  of  us  was  for  the  count.  We  each  knew  that. 
At  one  time  I  thought  he'd  got  me — we  were  crash- 
ing backwards  and  forwards,  and  I  caught  my  head 
against  a  wooden  pole  which  nearly  stunned  me.  And, 
mark  you,  all  the  time  I  was  expecting  his  pal  to  come 
back  and  inquire  after  his  health.  Then  suddenly 
I  felt  him  weaken,  and  I  squeezed  his  throat  the  harder. 
It  came  quite  quickly  at  the  end.  His  pistol-hand  col- 
lapsed, and  I  suppose  muscular  contraction  pulled  the 
trigger,  for  the  bullet  went  through  his  head,  though 
I  think  he  was  dead  already."  Dick  O'Rourke  paused, 
and  looked  thoughtfully  into  the  fire. 

"But  why  in  the  name  of  Heaven,"  I  cried,  irritably, 
"have  you  kept  this  dark  all  the  while?  Why  didn't 
you  tell  us  at  the  time?" 


46  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

For  a  while  he  did  not  answer,  and  then  he  pro- 
duced his  pocket-book.  From  it  he  took  a  photo- 
graph, which  he  handed  to  me. 

"Out  of  that  German's  pocket  I  took  that  photo- 
graph." 

"Well,"  I  said,  "what  about  it?  A  very  pretty 
girl  for  a  German."  Then  I  looked  at  it  closely. 
"Why,  it  was  taken  in  England.  Is  it  an  English 
girl?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  dryly,  "it  is.  It's  Moyra 
Kavanagh,  whom  I  proposed  to  forty-eight  hours 
previously  at  Giro's.  She  refused  me,  and  told  me 
then  she  was  in  love  with  a  German.  I  celebrate  the 
news  by  coming  over  here  and  killing  him,  in  an 
individual  fight  where  it  was  man  to  man." 

"But,"  I  cried,  "good  heavens!  man — it  was  you 
or  he." 

"I  know  that,"  he  answered,  wearily.  "What  then? 
He  evidently  loved  her ;  if  not — why  the  photo.  Look 
at  what's  written  on  the  back — 'From  Moyra — with 
all  my  love.'  All  her  love.  Lord !  it's  a  rum  box  up." 
He  sighed  wearily  and  slowly  replaced  it  in  his  case. 
"So  I  buried  him,  and  I  chucked  his  gun  in  a  pond, 
and  said  nothing  about  it.  If  I  had  it  would  probably 
have  got  into  the  papers  or  some  such  rot,  and  she'd 
have  wanted  to  know  all  about  it.  Think  of  it! 
What  the  deuce  would  I  have  told  her?  To  sympa- 


THE  MOTOR-GUN  47 

thise  and  discuss  her  love  affairs  with  her  in  London, 
and  then  toddle  over  here  and  slaughter  him.  Dash 
it,  man,  it's  Gilbertian!  And,  mark  you,  nothing 
would  induce  me  to  marry  her — even  if  she'd  have  me 
— without  her  knowing." 

"But "  I  began,  and  then  fell  silent.    The  more 

I  thought  of  it  the  less  I  liked  it.  Put  it  how  you 
like,  for  a  girl  to  take  as  her  husband  a  man  who  has 
actually  killed  the  man  she  loved  and  was  engaged 
to — German  or  no  German — is  a  bit  of  a  pill  to  swal- 
low. 

After  mature  consideration  we  decided  to  present 
the  pill  to  her  garbed  in  this  form.  On  me — as  a 
scribbler  of  sorts — descended  the  onus  of  putting  it 
on  paper.  When  I'd  done  it,  and  Dick  had  read  it, 
he  said  I  was  a  fool,  and  wanted  to  tear  it  up.  Which 
is  like  a  man.  .  .  . 

Look  you,  my  lady,  it  was  a  fair  fight — it  was  war — 
it  was  an  Englishman  against  a  German;  and  the 
best  man  won.  And  surely  to  Heaven  you  can't 
blame  poor  old  Dick?  He  didn't  know;  how  could 
he  have  known,  how  .  .  .  but  what's  the  use?  If 
your  heart  doesn't  bring  it  right — neither  my  pen 
nor  my  logic  is  likely  to.  Which  is  like  a  woman. 


CHAPTER  II 

PRIVATE  MEYRICK COMPANY  IDIOT 

NO  one  who  has  ever  given  the  matter  a  moment* s 
thought  would  deny,  I  suppose,  that  a  regiment 
without  discipline  is  like  a  ship  without  a  rudder.  True 
as  that  fact  has  always  been,  it  is  doubly  so  now, 
when  men  are  exposed  to  mental  and  physical  shocks 
such  as  have  never  before  been  thought  of. 

The  condition  of  a  man's  brain  after  he  has  sat 
in  a  trench  and  suffered  an  intensive  bombardment 
for  two  or  three  hours  can  only  be  described  by  one 
word,  and  that  is — numbed.  The  actual  physical  con- 
cussion, apart  altogether  from  the  mental  terror, 
caused  by  the  bursting  of  a  succession  of  large  shells 
in  a  man's  vicinity,  temporarily  robs  him  of  the  use 
of  his  thinking  faculties.  He  becomes  half-stunned, 
dazed ;  his  limbs  twitch  convulsively  and  involuntarily ; 
he  mutters  foolishly — he  becomes  incoherent.  Start- 
ing with  fright  he  passes  through  that  stage,  passes 
beyond  it  into  a  condition  bordering  on  coma;  and 
when  a  man  is  in  that  condition  he  is  not  responsible 
for  his  actions.  His  brain  has  ceased  to  work.  .  .  . 

49 


50  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

Now  it  is,  I  believe,  a  principle  of  psychology  that 
the  brain  or  mind  of  a  man  can  be  divided  into  two 
parts — the  objective  and  the  subjective:  the  objec- 
tive being  that  part  of  his  thought-box  which  is 
actuated  by  outside  influences,  by  his  senses,  by  his 
powers  of  deduction;  the  subjective  being  that  part 
which  is  not  directly  controllable  by  what  he  sees 
and  hears,  the  part  which  the  religious  might  call 
his  soul,  the  Buddhist  "the  Spark  of  God/'  others 
instinct.  And  this  portion  of  a  man's  nature  remains 
acutely  active,  even  while  the  other  part  has  struck 
work.  In  fact,  the  more  numbed  and  comatose  the 
thinking  brain,  the  more  clearly  and  insistently  does 
subjective  instinct  hold  sway  over  a  man's  body. 
Which  all  goes  to  show  that  discipline,  if  it  is  to  be 
of  any  use  to  a  man  at  such  a  time,  must  be  a  very  dif- 
ferent type  of  thing  to  what  the  ordinary,  uninitiated, 
and  so-called  free  civilian  believes  it  to  be.  It  must 
be  an  ideal,  a  thing  where  the  motive  counts,  almost 
a  religion.  It  must  be  an  appeal  to  the  soul  of  man, 
not  merely  an  order  to  his  body.  That  the  order  to 
his  body,  the  self-control  of  his  daily  actions,  the  gen- 
eral change  in  his  mode  of  life  will  infallibly  follow 
on  the  heels  of  the  appeal  to  his  soul — if  that  appeal 
be  successful — is  obvious.  But  the  appeal  must  come 
first:  it  must  be  the  driving  power;  it  must  be  the 
cause  and  not  the  effect.  Otherwise,  when  the  brain 


PRIVATE  MEYRICK— COMPANY  IDIOT     51 

is  gone — numbed  by  causes  outside  its  control;  when 
the  reasoning  intellect  of  man  is  out  of  action — 
stunned  for  the  time;  when  only  his  soul  remains  to 
pull  the  quivering,  helpless  body  through, — then,  un- 
less that  soul  has  the  ideal  of  discipline  in*  it,  it  will 
fail.  And  failure  may  mean  death  and  disaster ;  it  will 
mean  shame  and  disgrace,  when  sanity  returns.  .  .  . 
To  the  man  seated  at  his  desk  in  the  company 
office  these  ideas  were  not  new.  He  had  been  one  of 
the  original  Expeditionary  Force;  but  a  sniper  had 
sniped  altogether  too  successfully  out  by  Zillebecke  in 
the  early  stages  of  the  first  battle  of  Ypres,  and  when 
that  occurs  a  rest  cure  becomes  necessary.  At  that 
time  he  was  the  senior  subaltern  of  one  of  the  finest 
regiments  of  "a  contemptible  little  army";  now  he 
was  a  major  commanding  a  company  in  the  tenth 
battalion  of  that  same  regiment.  And  in  front  of 
him  on  the  desk,  a  yellow  form  pinned  to  a  white 
slip  of  flimsy  paper,  announced  that  No.  8469,  Private 
Meyrick,  J.,  was  for  office.  The  charge  was  "Late 
falling  in  on  the  8  a.m.  parade,"  and  the  evidence 
against  him  was  being  given  by  C.-S.-M.  Hayton,  also 
an  old  soldier  from  that  original  battalion  at  Ypres. 
It  was  Major  Seymour  himself  who  had  seen  the  late 
appearance  of  the  above-mentioned  Private  Meyrick, 
and  who  had  ordered  the  yellow  form  to  be  prepared. 


52  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

And  now  with  it  in  front  of  him,  he  stared  musingly 
at  the  office  fire.  .  .  . 

There  are  a  certain  number  of  individuals  who 
from  earliest  infancy  have  been  imbued  with  the  idea 
that  the  chief  pastime  of  officers  in  the  army,  when 
they  are  not  making  love  to  another  man's  wife,  is 
the  preparation  of  harsh  and  tyrannical  rules  for  the 
express  purpose  of  annoying  their  men,  and  the  gloat- 
ing infliction  of  drastic  punishment  on  those  that  break 
them.  The  absurdity  of  this  idea  has  nothing  to  do 
with  it,  it  being  a  well-known  fact  that  the  more 
absurd  an  idea  is,  the  more  utterly  fanatical  do  its 
adherents  become.  To  them  the  thought  that  a  man 
being  late  on  parade  should  make  him  any  the  worse 
fighter — especially  as  he  had,  in  all  probability,  some 
good  and  sufficient  excuse — cannot  be  grasped.  To 
them  the  idea  that  men  may  not  be  a  law  unto  them- 
selves— though  possibly  agreed  to  reluctantly  in  the 
abstract — cannot  possibly  be  assimilated  in  the  con- 
crete. 

"He  has  committed  some  trifling  offence,"  they 
say;  "now  you  will  give  him  some  ridiculous  punish- 
ment. That  is  the  curse  of  militarism — a  chosen  few 
rule  by  Fear."  And  if  you  tell  them  that  any  attempt 
to  inculcate  discipline  by  fear  alone  must  of  necessity 
fail,  and  that  far  from  that  being  the  method  in  the 


PRIVATE  MEYRICK— COMPANY  IDIOT     55 

Army  the  reverse  holds  good,  they  will  not  believe  you. 
Yet — it  is  so.  ... 

"Shall  I  bring  in  the  prisoner,  sir?*'  The  Sergeant- 
Major  was  standing  by  the  door. 

"Yes,  I'll  see  him  now."  The  officer  threw  his  cig- 
arette into  the  fire  and  put  on  his  hat. 

"Take  off  your  'at.  Come  along  there,  my  lad 
— move.  You'd  go  to  sleep  at  your  mother's  funeral 
— you  would."  Seymour  smiled  at  J:he  conversation 
outside  the  door;  he  had  soldiered  many  years  with 
that  Sergeant-Major.  "Now,  step  up  briskly.  Quick 
march.  'Alt.  Left  turn."  He  closed  the  door  and 
ranged  himself  alongside  the  prisoner  facing  the  table. 

"No.  8469,  Private  Meyrick — you  are  charged  with 
being  late  on  the  8  a.m.  parade  this  morning.  Ser- 
geant-Major, what  do  you  know  about  it?" 

"Sir,  on  the  8  a.m.  parade  this  morning,  Private 
Meyrick  came  running  on  'alf  a  minute  after  the 
bugle  sounded.  'Is  puttees  were  not  put  on  tidily. 
I'd  like  to  say,  sir,  that  it's  not  the  first  time  this 
man  has  been  late  falling  in.  'E  seems  to  me  to  be 
always  a  dreaming,  somehow — not  properly  awake 
like.  I  warned  'im  for  office." 

The  officer's  eyes  rested  on  the  hatless  soldier  fac- 
ing him.  "Well,  Meyrick,"  he  said  quietly,  "what 
have  you  got  to  say?" 


54  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

"Nothing,  sir.  I'm  sorry  as  'ow  I  was  late.  I  was 
reading,  and  I  never  noticed  the  time." 

"What  were  you  reading?"  The  question  seemed 
superfluous — almost  foolish ;  but  something  in  the  eyes 
of  the  man  facing  him,  something  in  his  short,  stumpy, 
uncouth  figure  interested  him. 

"I  was  a'reading  Kipling,  sir."  The  Sergeant- 
Major  snorted  as  nearly  as  such  an  august  discipli- 
narian could  snort  in  the  presence  of  his  officer. 

"  'E  ought,  sir,  to  'ave  been  'elping  the  cook's  mate 
— until  'e  was  due  on  parade." 

"Why  do  you  read  Kipling  or  anyone  else  when 
you  ought  to  be  doing  other  things?"  queried  the  offi- 
cer. His  interest  in  the  case  surprised  himself;  the 
excuse  was  futile,  and  two  or  three  days  to  barracks 
is  an  excellent  corrective. 

"I  dunno,  sir.  'E  sort  of  gets  'old  of  me,  like. 
Makes  me  want  to  do  things — and  then  I  can't.  I've 
always  been  slow  and  awkward  like,  and  I  gets  a  bit 
flustered  at  times.  But  I  do  try  'ard."  Again  a 
doubtful  noise  from  the  Sergeant-Major;  to  him  try- 
ing 'ard  and  reading  Kipling  when  you  ought  to  be 
swabbing  up  dishes  were  hardly  compatible. 

For  a  moment 'or  two  the  officer  hesitated,  while 
the  Sergeant-Ma j or  looked  frankly  puzzled.  "What 
the  blazes  'as  come  over  'im,"  he  was  thinking;  "surely 
he  ain't  going  to  be  guyed  by  that  there  wash.  Why 


PRIVATE  MEYRICK— COMPANY  IDIOT     55 

don't  'e  give  'im  two  days  and  be  done  with  it — 
and  me  with  all  them  returns." 

"I'm  going  to  talk  to  you,  Meyrick."  Major 
Seymour's  voice  cut  in  on  these  reflections.  For  the 
fraction  of  a  moment  "Two  days  C.B."  had  been  on 
the  tip  of  his  tongue,  and  then  he'd  changed  his  mind. 
"I  want  to  try  and  make  you  understand  why  you 
were  brought  up  to  office  to-day.  In  every  com- 
munity— in  every  body  of  men — there  must  be  a  code 
of  rules  which  govern  what  they  do.  Unless  those 
rules  are  carried  out  by  all  those  men,  the  whole  system 
falls  to  the  ground.  Supposing  everyone  came  on 
to  parade  half  a  minute  late  because  they'd  been 
reading  Kipling?" 

"I  know,  sir.  I  see  as  'ow  I  was  wrong.  But — I 
dreams  sometimes  as  'ow  I'm  like  them  he  talks 
about,  when  'e  says  as  'ow  they  lifted  'em  through 
the  charge  as  won  the  day.  And  then  the  dream's 
over,  and  I  know  as  'ow  I'm  not." 

The  Sergeant-Major's  impatience  was  barely  con- 
cealed; those  returns  were  oppressing  him  horribly. 

"You  can  get  on  with  your  work,  Sergeant-Ma j or. 
I  know  you're  busy."  Seymour  glanced  at  the  N.C.O. 
"I  want  to  say  a  little  more  to  Meyrick." 

The  scandalised  look  on  his  face  amused  him;  to 
leave  a  prisoner  alone  with  an  officer — impossible, 
unheard  of. 


56  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

"I  am  in  no  hurry,  sir,  thank  you." 

"All  right  then,"  Seymour  spoke  briefly.  "Now, 
Meyrick,  I  want  you  to  realise  that  the  principle  at 
the  bottom  of  all  discipline  is  the  motive  that  makes 
that  discipline.  I  want  you  to  realise  that  all  these 
rules  are  made  for  the  good  of  the  regiment,  and 
that  in  everything  you  do  and  say  you  have  an  effect 
on  the  regiment.  You  count  in  the  show,  and  I 
count  in  it,  and  so  does  the  Sergeant-Major.  We're 
all  out  for  the  same  thing,  my  lad,  and  that  is  the 
regiment.  We  do  things  not  because  we're  afraid  of 
being  punished  if  we  don't,  but  because  we  know 
that  they  are  for  the  good  of  the  regiment — the  finest 
regiment  in  the  world.  You've  got  to  make  good, 
not  because  you'll  be  dropped  on  if  you  don't,  but 
because  you'll  pull  the  regiment  down  if  you  fail. 
And  because  you  count,  you,  personally,  must  not 
be  late  on  parade.  It  does  matter  what  you  do  your- 
self. I  want  you  to  realise  that,  and  why.  The  rules 
you  are  ordered  to  comply  with  are  the  best  rules. 
Sometimes  we  alter  one — because  we  find  a  better; 
but  they're  the  best  we  can  get,  and  before  you  can 
find  yourself  in  the  position  of  the  men  you  dream 
about — the  men  who  lift  others,  the  men  who  lead 
others — you've  got  to  lift  and  lead  yourself.  Nothing 
is  too  small  to  worry  about,  nothing  too  insignificant. 
And  because  I  think,  that  at  the  back  of  your  head 


PRIVATE  MEYRICK— COMPANY  IDIOT     57 

somewhere  you've  got  the  right  idea;  because  I 
think  it's  natural  to  you  to  be  a  bit  slow  and  awkward 
and  that  your  failure  isn't  due  to  laziness  or  slack- 
ness, I'm  not  going  to  punish  you  this  time  for  break- 
ing the  rules.  If  you  do  it  again,  it  will  be  a  different 
matter.  There  comes  a  time  when  one  can't  judge 
motives;  when  one  can  only  judge  results.  Case  dis- 
missed." 

Thoughtfully  the  officer  lit  a  cigarette  as  the  door 
closed,  and  though  for  the  present  there  was  nothing 
more  for  him  to  do  in  office,  he  lingered  on,  pursuing 
his  train  of  thoughts.  Fully  conscious  of  the  ag- 
grieved wrath  of  his  Sergeant-Major  at  having  his 
time  wasted,  a  slight  smile  spread  over  his  face.  He 
was  not  given  to  making  perorations  of  this  sort, 
and  now  that  it  was  over  he  wondered  rather  why 
he'd  done  it.  And  then  he  recalled  the  look  in  the 
private's  eyes  as  he  had  spoken  of  his  dreams. 

"He'll  make  good  that  man."  Unconsciously  he 
spoke  aloud.  "He'll  make  good." 

The  discipline  of  habit  is  what  we  soldiers  had  be- 
fore the  war,  and  that  takes  time.  Now  it  must  be 
the  discipline  of  intelligence,  of  ideal.  And  for  that 
fear  is  the  worst  conceivable  teacher.  We  have  no 
time  to  form  habits  now;  the  routine  of  the  army  is 
of  too  short  duration  before  the  test  comes.  And  the 
test  is  too  crushing.  .  .  . 


58  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

The  bed-rock  now  as  then  is  the  same,  only  the 
methods  of  getting  down  to  that  bed-rock  have  to  be 
more  hurried.  Of  old  habitude  and  constant  associa- 
tion instilled  a  religion — the  religion  of  obedience, 
the  religion  of  esprit  de  corps.  But  it  took  time. 
Now  we  need  the  same  religion,  but  we  haven't  the 
same  time. 

In  the  office  next  door  the  Sergeant-Ma j  or  was 
speaking  soft  words  to  the  Pay  Corporal. 

"Blimey,  I  dunno  what's  come  over  the  bloke.  You 
know  that  there  Meyrick  .  .  ." 

"Who,  the  Slug?"  interpolated  the  other. 

"Yes.  Well  'e  come  shambling  on  to  parade  this 
morning  with  'is  puttees  flapping  round  his  ankles 
— late  as  usual;  and  'e  told  me  to  run  'im  up  to 
office."  A  thumb  indicated  the  Major  next  door. 
"When  I  gets  'im  there,  instead  of  giving  'im  three 
days  C.B.  and  being  done  with  it,  'e  starts  a  lot  of 
jaw  about  motives  and  discipline.  'E  hadn't  got 
no  ruddy  excuse;  said  'e  was  a'reading  Kipling,  or 
some  such  rot — when  'e  ought  to  have  been  'elping 
the  cook's  mate." 

"What  did  he  give  him?"  asked  the  Pay  Corporal, 
interested. 

"Nothing.  His  blessing  and  dismissed  the  case. 
As  if  I  had  nothing  better  to  do  than  listen  to  'im 


PRIVATE  MEYRICK— COMPANY  IDIOT     59 

talking  'ot  air  to  a  perisher  like  that  there  Meyrick. 
'Ere,  pass  over  them  musketry  returns." 

Which  conversation,  had  Seymour  overheard  it, 
he  would  have  understood  and  fully  sympathised  with. 
For  C.-S.-M.  Hayton,  though  a  prince  of  sergeant- 
majors,  was  no  student  of  physiology.  To  him  a  spade 
was  a  spade  only  as  long  as  it  shovelled  earth. 
•  ••••• 

Now,  before  I  go  on  to  the  day  when  the  subject 
of  all  this  trouble  and  talk  was  called  on  to  make 
good,  and  how  he  did  it,  a  few  words  on  the  man 
himself  might  not  be  amiss.  War,  the  great  forcing 
house  of  character,  admits  no  lies.  Sooner  or  later  it 
finds  out  a  man,  and  he  stands  in  the  pitiless  glare 
of  truth  for  what  he  is.  And  it  is  not  by  any  means 
the  cheery  hail-fellow-well-met  type,  or  the  thruster, 
or  the  sportsman,  who  always  pool  the  most  votes 
when  the  judging  starts.  .  .  . 

John  Meyrick,  before  he  began  to  train  for  the 
great  adventure,  had  been  something  in  a  warehouse 
down  near  Tilbury.  And  "something"  is  about  the 
best  description  of  what  he  was  that  you  could  give. 
Moreover  there  wasn't  a  dog's  chance  of  his  ever 
being  "anything."  He  used  to  help  the  young  man 
— I  should  say  young  gentleman — who  checked  weigh 
bills  at  one  of  the  dock  entrances.  More  than  that 
I  cannot  say,  and  incidentally  the  subject  is  not  of 


60  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

surpassing  importance.  His  chief  interests  in  life 
were  contemplating  the  young  gentleman,  listening 
open-mouthed  to  his  views  on  life,  and,  dreaming. 
Especially  the  latter.  Sometimes  he  would  go  after 
the  day's  work,  and,  sitting  down  on  a  bollard,  his 
eyes  would  wander  over  the  lines  of  some  dirty  tramp, 
with  her  dark-skinned  crew.  Visions  of  wonderful 
seas  and  tropic  islands,  of  leafy  palms  with  the  blue- 
green  surf  thundering  in  towards  them,  of  coral  reefs 
and  glorious-coloured  flowers,  would  run  riot  in  his 
brain.  Not  that  he  particularly  wanted  to  go  and 
see  these  figments  of  his  imagination  for  himself;  it 
was  enough  for  him  to  dream  of  them — to  conjure 
them  up  for  a  space  in  his  mind  by  the  help  of  an 
actual  concrete  ship — and  then  to  go  back  to  his  work 
of  assisting  his  loquacious  companion.  He  did  not 
find  the  work  uncongenial;  he  had  no  hankerings 
after  other  modes  of  life — in  fact  the  thought  of  any 
change  never  even  entered  into  his  calculations.  What 
the  future  might  hold  he  neither  knew  nor  cared ;  the 
expressions  of  his  companion  on  the  rottenness  of  life 
in  general  and  their  firm  in  particular  awoke  no  an- 
swering chord  in  his  breast.  He  had  enough  to  live 
on  in  his  little  room  at  the  top  of  a  tenement  house — 
he  had  enough  over  for  an  occasional  picture  show 
— and  he  had  his  dreams.  He  was  content. 

Then  came  the  war.     For  a  long  while  it  passed 


PRIVATE  MEYRICK— COMPANY  IDIOT     61 

him  by;  it  was  no  concern  of  his,  and  it  didn't  enter 
his  head  that  it  was  ever  likely  to  be  until  one  night, 
as  he  was  going  in  to  see  "Jumping  Jess,  or  the 
Champion  Girl  Cowpuncher"  at  the  local  movies,  a 
recruiting  sergeant  touched  him  on  the  arm. 

He  was  not  a  promising  specimen  for  a  would-be 
soldier,  but  that  recruiting  sergeant  was  not  new  to 
the  game,  and  he'd  seen  worse. 

"Why  aren't  you  in  khaki,  young  fellow  me  lad?" 
he  remarked  genially. 

The  idea,  as  I  say,  was  quite  new  to  our  friend. 
Even  though  that  very  morning  his  colleague  in  the 
weigh-bill  pastime  had  chucked  it  and  joined,  even 
though  he'd  heard  a  foreman  discussing  who  they 
were  to  put  in  his  place  as  "that  young  Meyrick  was 
habsolutely  'opeless,"  it  still  hadn't  dawned  on  him 
that  he  might  go  too.  But  the  recruiting  sergeant 
was  a  man  of  some  knowledge;  in  his  daily  round  he 
encountered  many  and  varied  types.  In  two  minutes 
he  had  fired  the  boy's  imagination  with  a  glowing 
and  partially  true  description  of  the  glories  of  war 
and  the  army,  and  supplied  him  with  another  set  of 
dreams  to  fill  his  brain.  Wasting  no  time,  he  struck 
while  the  iron  was  hot,  and  in  a  few  minutes  John 
Meyrick,  sometime  checker  of  weigh-bills,  died,  and 
No.  8469,  Private  John  Meyrick,  came  into  being.  .  .  . 

But  though  you  change  a  man's  vocation  with  the 


62  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

stroke  of  a  pen,  you  do  not  change  his  character. 
A  dreamer  he  was  in  the  beginning,  and  a  dreamer  he 
remained  to  the  end.  And  dreaming,  as  I  have  already 
pointed  out,  was  not  a  thing  which  commended  itself 
to  Company-Sergeant-Major  Hay  ton,  who  in  due 
course  became  one  of  the  chief  arbiters  of  our  friend's 
destinies.  True  it  was  no  longer  coral  islands — but 
such  details  availed  not  with  cook's  mates  and  other 
busy  movers  in  the  regimental  hive.  Where  he'd  got 
them  from,  Heaven  knows,  those  tattered  volumes 
of  Kipling;  but  their  matchless  spirit  had  caught  his 
brain  and  fired  his  soul,  with  the  result — well,  the  first 
of  them  has  been  given. 

There  were  more  results  to  follow.  Not  three  days 
after  he  was  again  upon  the  mat  for  the  same  offence, 
only  to  say  much  the  same  as  before. 

"I  do  try,  sir — I  do  try;  but  some'ow " 

And  though  in  the  bottom  of  his  heart  the  officer 
believed  him,  though  in  a  very  strange  way  he  felt 
interested  in  him,  there  are  limits  and  there  are  rules. 
There  comes  a  time,  as  he  had  said,  when  one  can't 
judge  by  motives,  when  one  can  only  judge  by  results. 

"You  mustn't  only  try;  you  must  succeed.  Three 
days  to  barracks." 

That  night  in  mess  the  officer  sat  next  to  the  Colonel. 
"It's  the  thrusters,  the  martinets,  the  men  of  action 


PRIVATE  MEYRICK— COMPANY  IDIOT     63 

who  win  the  V.C.'s  and  D.C.M/s,  my  dear  fellow/' 
said  his  C.O.,  as  he  pushed  along  the  wine.  "But  it's 
the  dreamers,  the  idealists  who  deserve  them.  They 
suffer  so  much  more." 

And  as  Major  Seymour  poured  himself  out  a  glass 
of  port,  a  face  came  into  his  mind — the  face  of  a 
stumpy,  uncouth  man  with  deep-set  eyes.  "I  wonder/' 
he  murmured — "I  wonder." 

The  opportunities  for  stirring  deeds  of  heroism  in 
France  do  not  occur  with  great  frequency,  whatever 
outsiders  may  think  to  the  contrary.  For  months  on 
end  a  battalion  may  live  a  life  of  peace  and  utter  bore- 
dom, getting  a  few  casualties  now  and  then,  occa- 
sionally bagging  an  unwary  Hun,  vegetating  con- 
tinuously in  the  same  unprepossessing  hole  in  the 
ground — saving  only  when  they  go  to  another,  or 
retire  to  a  town  somewhere  in  rear  to  have  a  bath. 
And  the  battalion  to  which  No.  8469,  Private  Meyrick, 
belonged  was  no  exception  to  the  general  rule. 

For  five  weeks  they  had  lived  untroubled  by  any- 
thing except  flies — all  of  them,  that  is,  save  various 
N.C.O.'s  in  A  company.  To  them  flies  were  quite  a 
secondary  consideration  when  compared  to  their  other 
worry.  And  that,  it  is  perhaps  superfluous  to  add, 
was  Private  Meyrick  himself. 

Every  day  the  same  scene  would  be  enacted;  every 


64  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

day  some  sergeant  or  corporal  would  dance  with  rage 
as  he  contemplated  the  Company  Idiot — the  title  by 
which  he  was  now  known  to  all  and  sundry. 

"Wake  up !  Wake  up !  Lumme,  didn't  I  warn  you 
— didn't  I  warn  yer  'arf  an  'our  ago  over  by  that 
there  tree,  when  you  was  a-staring  into  the  branches 
looking  for  nuts  or  something — didn't  I  warn  yer 
that  the  company  was  parading  at  10.15  for  'ot  baths?" 

"I  didn't  'ear  you,  Corporal — I  didn't  really." 

"Didn't  'ear  me!  Wot  yer  mean,  didn't  'ear  me? 
My  voice  ain't  like  the  twitter  of  a  grass'opper,  is  it? 
It's  my  belief  you're  balmy,  my  boy,  B-A-R-M-Y. 
Savez.  Get  a  move  on  yer,  for  Gawd's  sake!  You 
ought  to  'ave  a  nurse.  And  when  you  gets  to  the 
bath-'ouse,  for  'Eaven's  sake  pull  yerself  together! 
Don't  forget  to  take  off  yer  clothes  before  yer  gets  in; 
and  when  they  lets  the  water  out,  don't  go  stopping 
in  the  bath  because  you  forgot  to  get  out.  I  wouldn't 
like  another  regiment  to  see  you  lying  about  when 
they  come.  They  might  say  things." 

And  so  with  slight  variations  the  daily  strafe  went 
on.  Going  up  to  the  trenches  it  was  always  Meyrick 
who  got  lost;  Meyrick  who  fell  into  shell  holes  and 
lost  his  rifle  or  the  jam  for  his  section;  Meyrick  who 
forgot  to  lie  down  when  a  flare  went  up,  but  stood 
vacantly  gazing  at  it  until  partially  stunned  by  his 
next-door  neighbour.  Periodically  messages  would 


PRIVATE  MEYRICK— COMPANY  IDIOT     65 

come  through  from  the  next  regiment  asking  if  they'd 
lost  the  regimental  pet,  and  that  he  was  being  returned. 
It  was  always  Meyrick.  .  .  . 

"I  can't  do  nothing  with  'im,  sir."  It  was  the  Com- 
pany-Sergeant-Major  speaking  to  Seymour.  "  'E 
seems  soft  like  in  the  'ead.  Whenever  'e  does  do  any- 
thing and  doesn't  forget,  'e  does  it  wrong.  'E's  always 
dreaming  and  'alf  balmy." 

"He's  not  a  flier,  I  know,  Sergeant-Major,  but  we've 
got  to  put  up  with  all  sorts  nowadays,"  returned  the 
ofticer  diplomatically.  "Send  him  to  me,  and  let  me 
have  a  talk  to  him." 

"Very  good,  sir;  but  'e'll  let  us  down  badly  one  of 
these  days." 

And  so  once  again  Meyrick  stood  in  front  of  his 
company  officer,  and  was  encouraged  to  speak  of  his 
difficulties.  To  an  amazing  degree  he  had  remembered 
the  discourse  he  had  listened  to  many  months  previ- 
ously; to  do  something  for  the  regiment  was  what 
he  desired  more  than  anything — to  do  something  big, 
really  big.  He  floundered  and  stopped;  he  could 
find  no  words.  .  .  . 

"But  don't  you  understand  that  it's  just  as  im- 
portant to  do  the  little  things?  If  you  can't  do  them, 
you'll  never  do  the  big  ones." 

"Yes,  sir — I  sees  that;  I  do  try,  sir,  and  then  I 
gets  thinking,  and  some'ow — oh !  I  dunno — but  every- 


66  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

thing  goes  out  of  my  head  like.  I  wants  the  regiment: 
to  be  proud  of  me — and  then  they  calls  me  the  Com- 
pany Idiot."  There  was  something  in  the  man's  face 
that  touched  Seymour. 

"But  how  can  the  regiment  be  proud  of  you,  my 
lad,"  he  asked  gently,  "if  you're  always  late  on  parade, 
and  forgetting  to  do  what  you're  told?  If  I  wasn't 
certain  in  my  own  mind  that  it  wasn't  slackness  and 
disobedience  on  your  part,  I  should  ask  the  Colonel 
to  send  you  back  to  England  as  useless." 

An  appealing  look  came  into  the  man's  eyes.  "Oh ! 
don't  do  that,  sir.  I  will  try  'ard — straight  I  will." 

"Yes,  but  as  I  told  you  once  before,  there  comes  a 
time  when  one  must  judge  by  results.  Now,  Meyrick, 
you  must  understand  this  finally.  Unless  you  do 
improve,  I  shall  do  what  I  said.  I  shall  tell  the  Colonel 
that  you're  not  fitted  to  be  a  soldier,  and  I  shall  get 
him  to  send  you  away.  I  can't  go  on  much  longer; 
you're  more  trouble  than  you're  worth.  We're  going 
up  to  the  trenches  again  to-night,  and  I  shall  watch 
you.  That  will  do;  you  may  go." 

And  so  it  came  about  that  the  Company  Idiot 
entered  on  what  was  destined  to  prove  the  big  scene 
in  his  uneventful  life  under  the  eyes  of  a  critical 
audience.  To  the  Sergeant-Major,  who  was  a  gross 
materialist,  failure  was  a  foregone  conclusion;  to 
the  company  officer,  who  went  a  little  nearer  to  the 


PRIVATE  MEYRICK— COMPANY  IDIOT     67 

heart  of  things,  the  issue  was  doubtful.  Possibly 
his  threat  would  succeed;  possibly  he'd  struck  the 
right  note.  And  the  peculiar  thing  is  that  both  proved 
right  according  to  their  own  lights.  .  .  . 

This  particular  visit  to  the  trenches  was  destined 
to  be  of  a  very  different  nature  to  former  ones.  On 
previous  occasions  peace  had  reigned;  nothing  un- 
toward had  occurred  to  mar  the  quiet  restful  exist- 
ence which  trench  life  so  often  affords  to  its  devotees. 
But  this  time.  .  .  . 

It  started  about  six  o'clock  in  the  morning  on  the 
second  day  of  their  arrival — a  really  pleasant  little  in- 
tensive bombardment.  A  succession  of  shells  came 
streaming  in,  shattering  every  yard  of  the  front  line 
with  tearing  explosions.  Then  the  Huns  turned  on 
the  gas  and  attacked  behind  it.  A  few  reached  the 
trenches — the  majority  did  not;  and  the  ground  out- 
side was  covered  with  grey-green  figures,  some  of 
which  were  writhing  and  twitching  and  some  of  which 
were  still.  The  attack  had  failed.  .  .  . 

But  that  sort  of  thing  leaves  its  mark  on  the 
defenders,  and  this  was  their  first  baptism  of  real 
fire.  Seymour  had  passed  rapidly  down  the  trench 
when  he  realised  that  for  the  moment  it  was  over; 
and  though  men's  faces  were  covered  with  the  hideous 
gas  masks,  he  saw  by  the  twitching  of  their  hands 


68  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

and  by  the  ugly  high-pitched  laughter  he  heard  that 
it  would  be  well  to  get  into  touch  with  those  behind. 
Moreover,  in  every  piece  of  trench  there  lay  motion- 
less figures  in  khaki.  .  .  . 

It  was  as  he  entered  his  dugout  that  the  bombard- 
ment started  again.  Quickly  he  went  to  the  telephone, 
and  started  to  get  on  to  brigade  headquarters.  It  took 
him  twenty  seconds  to  realise  that  the  line  had  been 
cut,  and  then  he  cursed  dreadfully.  The  roar  of  the 
bursting  shells  was  deafening;  his  cursing  was  inaudi- 
ble ;  but  in  a  fit  of  almost  childish  rage — he  kicked  the 
machine.  Men's  nerves  are  jangled  at  times.  .  .  . 

It  was  merely  coincidence  doubtless,  but  a  motion- 
less figure  in  a  gas  helmet  crouching  outside  the  dug- 
out saw  that  kick,  and  slowly  in  his  bemused  brain 
there  started  a  train  of  thought.  Why  should  his 
company  officer  do  such  a  thing;  why  should  they  all 
be  cowering  in  the  trench  waiting  for  death  to  come 
to  them;  why  .  .  .  ?  For  a  space  his  brain  refused 
to  act;  then  it  started  again. 

Why  was  that  man  lying  full  length  at  the  bottom 
of  the  trench,  with  the  great  hole  torn  out  of  his 
back,  and  the  red  stream  spreading  slowly  round  him ; 
why  didn't  it  stop  instead  of  filling  up  the  little  holes 
at  the  bottom  of  the  trench  and  then  overflowing  into 
the  next  one?  He  was  the  corporal  who'd  called  him 
balmy;  but  why  should  he  be  dead?  He  was  dead — 


PRIVATE  MEYRICK— COMPANY  IDIOT     69 

at  least  the  motionless  watcher  thought  he  must  be. 
He  lay  so  still,  and  his  body  seemed  twisted  and  un- 
natural. But  why  should  one  of  the  regiment  be  dead ; 
it  was  all  so  unexpected,  so  sudden?  And  why  did 
his  Major  kick  the  telephone?  .  .  . 

For  a  space  he  lay  still,  thinking;  trying  to  figure 
things  out.  He  suddenly  remembered  tripping  over 
a  wire  coming  up  to  the  trench,  and  being  cursed  by 
his  sergeant  for  lurching  against  him.  "You  would/' 
he  had  been  told — "you  would.  If  it  ain't  a  wire, 
you'd  fall  over  yer  own  perishing  feet." 

"What's  the  wire  for,  sergint?"  he  had  asked. 

"What  d'you  think,  softie.  Drying  the  washing 
on?  It's  the  telephone  wire  to  Headquarters." 

It  came  all  back  to  him,  and  it  had  been  over  by 
the  stunted  pollard  that  he'd  tripped  up.  Then  he 
looked  back  at  the  silent,  motionless  figure — the  red 
stream  had  almost  reached  him — and  the  Idea  came. 
It  came  suddenly — like  a  blow.  The  wire  must  be 
broken,  otherwise  the  officer  wouldn't  have  kicked 
the  telephone;  he'd  have  spoken  through  it. 

"I  wants  the  regiment  to  be  proud  of  me — and 
then  they  calls  me  the  Company  Idiot."  He  couldn't 
do  the  little  things — he  was  always  forgetting, 
but  .  .  .  !  What  was  that  about  "lifting  'em  through 
the  charge  that  won  the  day"  ?  There  was  no  charge, 
but  there  was  the  regiment.  And  the  regiment  was 


70  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

wanting  him  at  last.  Something  wet  touched  his  fin- 
gers, and  when  he  looked  at  them,  they  were  red. 
"B-A-R-M-Y.  You  ought  to  'ave  a  nurse.  .  .  ." 

Then  once  again  coherent  thought  failed  him — 
utter  physical  weakness  gripped  him — he  lay  coma- 
tose, shuddering,  and  crying  softly  over  he  knew  not 
what.  The  sweat  was  pouring  down  his  face  from 
the  heat  of  the  gas  helmet,  but  still  he  held  the  valve 
between  his  teeth,  breathing  in  through  the  nose  and 
out  through  the  mouth  as  he  had  been  told.  It  was 
automatic,  involuntary;  he  couldn't  think,  he  only 
remembered  certain  things  by  instinct. 

Suddenly  a  high  explosive  shell  burst  near  him — 
quite  close :  and  a  mass  of  earth  crashed  down  on  his 
legs  and  back,  half  burying  him.  He  whimpered 
feebly,  and  after  a  while  dragged  himself  free.  But 
the  action  brought  him  close  to  that  silent  figure,  with 
the  ripped  up  back.  .  .  . 

"You  ought  to  'ave  a  nurse  .  .  ."  Why?  Gawd 
above — why?  Wasn't  he  as  good  a  man  as  that  there 
dead  corporal?  Wasn't  he  one  of  the  regiment  too? 
And  now  the  Corporal  couldn't  do  anything,  but  he 
— well,  he  hadn't  got  no  hole  torn  out  of  his  back.  It 
wasn't  his  blood  that  lay  stagnant,  filling  the  little 
holes  at  the  bottom  of  the  trench.  .  .  . 

Kipling  came  back  to  him — feebly,  from  another 
world.  The  dreamer  was  dreaming  once  again. 


PRIVATE  MEYRICK— COMPANY  IDIOT     71 

"If  your  officer's  dead  and  the  sergeants  look  white, 
Remember  it's  ruin  to  run  from  a  fight." 


Run!  Who  was  talking  of  running?  He  was  go- 
ing to  save  the  regiment — once  he  could  think  clearly 
again.  Everything  was  hazy  just  for  the  moment. 

"And  wait  for  supports  like  a  soldier." 

But  there  weren't  no  supports,  and  the  telephone  wire 
was  broken — the  wire  he'd  tripped  over  as  he  came  up. 
Until  it  was  mended  there  wouldn't  be  any  supports 

— until  it  was  mended — until 

With  a  choking  cry  he  lurched  to  his  feet:  and 
staggering,  running,  falling  down,  the  dreamer  crossed 
the  open.  A  tearing  pain  through  his  left  arm  made 
him  gasp,  but  he  got  there — got  there  and  collapsed. 
He  couldn't  see  very  well,  so  he  tore  off  his  gas  helmet, 
and,  peering  round,  at  last  saw  the  wire.  And  the  wire 
was  indeed  cut.  Why  the  throbbing  brain  should 
have  imagined  it  would  be  cut  there,  I  know  not; 
perhaps  he  associated  it  particularly  with  the  pollard 
— and  after  all  he  was  the  Company  Idiot.  But  it  was 
cut  there,  I  am  glad  to  say;  let  us  not  begrudge  him 
his  little  triumph.  He  found  one  end,  and  some  few 
feet  off  he  saw  the  other.  With  infinite  difficulty  he 
dragged  himself  towards  it.  Why  did  he  find  it  so 


72  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

terribly  hard  to  move?  He  couldn't  see  clearly; 
everything  somehow  was  getting  hazy  and  red.  The 
roar  of  the  shells  seemed  muffled  strangely — far-away, 
indistinct.  He  pulled  at  the  wire,  and  it  came  to- 
wards him ;  pulled  again,  and  the  two  ends  met.  Then 
he  slipped  back  against  the  pollard,  the  two  ends 
grasped  in  his  right  hand.  .  .  . 

The  regiment  was  safe  at  last.  The  officer  would 
not  have  to  kick  the  telephone  again.  The  Idiot  had 
made  good.  And  into  his  heart  there  came  a  wonder- 
ful peace. 

There  was  a  roaring  in  his  ears;  lights  danced  be- 
fore his  eyes ;  strange  shapes  moved  in  front  of  him. 
Then,  of  a  sudden,  out  of  the  gathering  darkness  a 
great  white  light  seared  his  senses,  a  deafening  crash 
overwhelmed  him,  a  sharp  stabbing  blow  struck  his 
head.  The  roaring  ceased,  and  a  limp  figure  slipped 
down  and  lay  still,  with  two  ends  of  wire  grasped 
tight  in  his  hand. 

"They  are  going  to  relieve  us  to-night,  Sergeant- 
Major."     The  two  men  with  tired  eyes   faced   one 
another  in  the  Major's  dugout.     The  bombardment 
was  over,   and  the  dying  rays  of  a  blood-red   sun 
glinted  through  the  door.    "I  think  they  took  it  well." 
"They  did,  sir — very  well." 
"LWhat  are  the  casualties?    Any  idea?" 


PRIVATE  MEYRICK— COMPANY  IDIOT     73 

"Somewhere  about  seventy  or  eighty,  sir — but  I 
don't  know  the  exact  numbers." 

"As  soon  as  it's  dark  I'm  going  back  to  headquarters. 
Captain  Standish  will  take  command." 

"That  there  Meyrick  is  reported  missing,  sir." 

"Missing!  He'll  turn  up  somewhere — if  he  hasn't 
been  hit." 

"Probably  walked  into  the  German  trenches  by  mis- 
take," grunted  the  C.-S.-M.  dispassionately,  and  re- 
tired. Outside  the  dugout  men  had  moved  the  cor- 
poral; but  the  red  pools  still  remained — stagnant  at 
the  bottom  of  the  trench.  .  .  . 

"Well,  you're  through  all  right  now,  Major,"  said 
a  voice  in  the  doorway,  and  an  officer  with  the  white 
and  blue  brassard  of  the  signals  came  in  and  sat  down. 
"There  are  so  many  wires  going  back  that  have  been 
laid  at  odd  times,  that  it's  difficult  to  trace  them  in  a 
hurry."  He  gave  a  ring  on  the  telephone,  and  in  a 
moment  the  thin,  metallic  voice  of  the  man  at  the 
other  end  broke  the  silence. 

"All  right.  Just  wanted  to  make  sure  we  were 
through.  Ring  off." 

"I  remember  kicking  that  damn  thing  this  morn- 
ing when  I  found  we  were  cut  off,"  remarked  Seymour, 
with  a  weary  smile.  "Funny  how  childish  one  is  at 
times." 

"Aye — but  natural.     This  war's  damnable."     The 


74  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

two  men  fell  silent.  "I'll  have  a  bit  of  an  easy  here," 
went  on  the  signal  officer  after  a  while,  "and  then  go 
down  with  you." 

A  few  hours  later  the  two  men  clambered  out  of  the 
back  of  the  trench.  "It's  easier  walking,  and  I  know 
every  stick,"  remarked  the  Major.  "Make  for  that 
stunted  pollard  first." 

Dimly  the  tree  stood  outlined  against  the  sky — a 
conspicuous  mark  and  signpost.  It  was  the  signal 
officer  who  tripped  over  it  first — that  huddled  quiet 
body,  and  gave  a  quick  ejaculation.  "Somebody 
caught  it  here,  poor  devil.  Look  out — duck." 

A  flare  shot  up  into  the  night,  and  by  its  light  the 
two  motionless  officers  close  to  the  pollard  looked  at 
what  they  had  found. 

"How  the  devil  did  he  get  here !"  muttered  Seymour. 
"It's  one  of  my  men." 

"Was  he  anywhere  near  you  when  you  kicked  the 
telephone  ?"  asked  the  other,  and  his  voice  was  a  little 
hoarse. 

"He  may  have  been — I  don't  know.     Why?" 

"Look  at  his  right  hand."  From  the  tightly 
clenched  fingers  two  broken  ends  of  wire  stuck  out. 

"Poor  lad."  The  Major  bit  his  lip.  "Poor  lad— 
I  wonder.  They  called  him  the  Company  Idiot.  Do 
you  think  ...  ?" 


PRIVATE  MEYRICK— COMPANY  IDIOT     75 

"I  think  he  came  out  to  find  the  break  in  the  wire," 
said  the  other  quietly.  "And  in  doing  so  he  found 
the  answer  to  the  big  riddle." 

"I  knew  he'd  make  good — I  knew  it  all  along.  He 
used  to  dream  of  big  things — something  big  for  the 
regiment." 

"And  he's  done  a  big  thing,  by  Jove,"  said  the  signal 
officer  gruffly,  "for  it's  the  motive  that  counts.  And 
he  couldn't  know  that  he'd  got  the  wrong  wire." 

"When  'e  doesn't  forget,  'e  does  things  wrong." 
As  I  said,  both  the  Sergeant-Ma j  or  and  his  officer 
proved  right  according  to  their  own  lights. 


CHAPTER  III 

SPUD  TREVOR  OF  THE  RED  HUSSARS 

IT  would  be  but  a  small  exaggeration  to  say  that  in 
every  God- forsaken  hole  and  corner  of  the  world, 
where  soldiers  lived  and  moved  and  had  their  being, 
before  Nemesis  overtook  Europe,  the  name  of  Spud 
Trevor  of  the  Red  Hussars  was  known.  From  Simla 
to  Singapore,  from  Khartoum  to  the  Curragh  his 
name  was  symbolical  of  all  that  a  regimental  officer 
should  be.  Senior  subalterns  guiding  the  erring  feet 
of  the  young  and  frivolous  from  the  tempting  paths 
of  night  clubs  and  fair  ladies,  to  the  infinitely  better 
ones  of  hunting  and  sport,  were  apt  to  quote  him. 
Adjutants  had  been  known  to  hold  him  up  as  an 
example  to  those  of  their  flock  who  needed  chasten- 
ing for  any  of  the  hundred  and  one  things  that 
adjutants  do  not  like — if  they  have  their  regiment 
at  heart.  And  he  deserved  it  all. 

I,  who  knew  him,  as  well  perhaps  as  anyone;  I, 
who  was  privileged  to  call  him  friend,  and  yet  in  the 
hour  of  his  greatest  need  failed  him;  I,  to  whose  lot 
it  has  fallen  to  remove  the  slur  from  his  name,  state 

77 


78  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

this  in  no  half-hearted  way.  He  deserved  it,  and  a 
thousand  times  as  much  again.  He  was  the  type  of 
man  beside  whom  the  ordinary  English  gentleman — 
the  so-called  white  man — looked  dirty-grey  in  compari- 
son. And  yet  there  came  a  day  when  men  who  had 
openly  fawned  on  him  left  the  room  when  he  came 
in,  when  whispers  of  an  unsuspected  yellow  streak 
in  him  began  to  circulate,  when  senior  subalterns  no 
longer  held  him  up  as  a  model.  Now  he  is  dead: 
and  it  has  been  left  to  me  to  vindicate  him.  Per- 
chance by  so  doing  I  may  wipe  out  a  little  of  the 
stain  of  guilt  that  lies  so  heavy  on  my  heart;  per- 
chance I  may  atone,  in  some  small  degree,  for  my 
doubts  and  suspicions ;  and,  perchance  too,  the  whitest 
man  that  ever  lived  may  of  his  understanding  and 
knowledge,  perfected  now  in  the  Great  Silence  to 
which  he  has  gone,  accept  my  tardy  reparation,  and 
forgive.  It  is  only  yesterday  that  the  document,  which 
explained  everything,  came  into  my  hands.  It  was 
sent  to  me  sealed,  and  with  it  a  short  covering  letter 
from  a  firm  of  solicitors  stating  that  their  client  was 
dead — killed  in  France — and  that  according  to  his  in- 
structions they  were  forwarding  the  enclosed,  with  the 
request  that  I  should  make  such  use  of  it  as  I  saw  fit. 
To  all  those  others,  who,  like  myself,  doubted, 
I  address  these  words.  Many  have  gone  under:  to 
them  I  venture  to  think  everything  is  now  clear.  May- 


SPUD  TREVOR  OF  THE  RED  HUSSARS    79 

be  they  have  already  met  Spud,  in  the  great  vast  gulfs 
where  the  mists  of  illusion  are  rolled  away.  For 
those  who  still  live,  he  has  no  abuse — that  incom- 
parable sportsman  and  sahib;  no  recriminations  for 
us  who  ruined  his  life.  He  goes  farther,  and  finds 
excuses  for  us;  God  knows  we  need  them.  Here  is 
what  he  has  written.  The  document  is  reproduced 
exactly  as  I  received  it — saving  only  that  I  have  altered 
all  names.  The  man,  whom  I  have  called  Ginger 
Bathurst,  and  everyone  else  concerned,  will,  I  think, 
recognise  themselves.  And,  pour  les  autres — let  them 
guess. 

In  two  days,  old  friend,  my  battalion  sails  for 
France;  and,  now  with  the  intention  full  formed  and 
fixed  in  my  mind,  that  I  shall  not  return,  I  have  de- 
termined to  put  down  on  paper  the  true  facts  of  what 
happened  three  years  ago :  or  rather,  the  true  motives 
that  impelled  me  to  do  what  I  did.  I  put  it  that  way, 
because  you  already  know  the  facts.  You  know  that 
I  was  accused  of  saving  my  life  at  the  expense  of  a 
woman's  when  the  Astoria  foundered  in  mid- Atlantic  ; 
you  know  that  I  was  accused  of  having  thrust  her 
aside  and  taken  her  place  in  the  boat.  That  accusation 
is  true.  I  did  save  my  life  at  a  woman's  expense.  But 
the  motives  that  impelled  my  action  you  do  not  know, 
nor  the  identity  of  the  woman  concerned.  I  hope 


8o  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

and  trust  that  when  you  have  read  what  I  shall  write 
you  will  exonerate  me  from  the  charge  of  a  cowardice, 
vile  and  abominable  beyond  words,  and  at  the  most 
only  find  me  guilty  of  a  mistaken  sense  of  duty.  These 
words  will  only  reach  you  in  the  event  of  my  death; 
do  with  them  what  you  will.  I  should  like  to  think 
that  the  old  name  was  once  again  washed  clean  of  the 
dirty  blot  it  has  on  it  now;  so  do  your  best  for  me, 
old  pal,  do  your  best. 

You  remember  Ginger  Bathurst — of  course  you  do. 
Is  he  still  a  budding  Staff  Officer  at  the  War  Office, 
I  wonder,  or  is  he  over  the  water  ?  I'm  out  of  touch 
with  the  fellows  in  these  days — (the  pathos  of  it: 
Spud  out  of  touch.,  Spud  of  all  men,  whose  soul  was 
in  the  Army} — one  doesn't  live  in  the  back  of  beyond 
for  three  years  and  find  Army  lists  and  gazettes  grow- 
ing on  the  trees.  You  remember  also,  I  suppose,  that 
I  was  best  man  at  his  wedding  when  he  married  the 
Comtesse  de  Grecin.  I  told  you  at  the  time  that  I 
was  not  particularly  enamoured  of  his  choice,  but  it 
was  his  funeral;  and  with  the  old  boy  asking  me  to 
steer  him  through,  I  had  no  possible  reason  for  refus- 
ing. Not  that  I  had  anything  against  the  woman: 
she  was  charming,  fascinating,  and  had  a  pretty  use- 
ful share  of  this  world's  boodle.  Moreover,  she  seemed 
extraordinarily  in  love  with  Ginger,  and  was  just  the 
sort  of  woman  to  push  an  ambitious  fellow  like  him 


SPUD  TREVOR  OF  THE  RED  HUSSARS  81 

right  up  to  the  top  of  the  tree.  He,  of  course,  was 
simply  idiotic:  he  was  stark,  raving  mad  about  her; 
vowed  she  was  the  most  peerless  woman  that  ever  a 
wretched  being  like  himself  had  been  privileged  to 
look  at;  loaded  her  with  presents  which  he  couldn't 
afford,  and  generally  took  it  a  good  deal  worse  than 
usual.  I  think,  in  a  way,  it  was  the  calm  acceptance 
of  those  presents  that  first  prejudiced  me  against  her. 
Naturally  I  saw  a  lot  of  her  before  they  were  married, 
being  such  a  pal  of  Ginger's,  and  I  did  my  best  for 
his  sake  to  overcome  my  dislike.  But  he  wasn't  a 
wealthy  man — at  the  most  he  had  about  six  hundred 
a  year  private  means — and  the  presents  of  jewellery 
alone  that  he  gave  her  must  have  made  a  pretty  large 
hole  in  his  capital. 

However  that  is  all  by  the  way.  They  were  mar- 
ried, and  shortly  afterwards  I  took  my  leave  big 
game  shooting  and  lost  sight  of  them  for  a  while. 
When  I  came  back  Ginger  was  at  the  War  Office, 
and  they  were  living  in  London.  They  had  a  delight- 
ful little  flat  in  Hans  Crescent,  and  she  was  pushing 
him  as  only  a  clever  woman  can  push.  Everybody 
who  could  be  of  the  slightest  use  to  him  sooner  or 
later  got  roped  in  to  dinner  and  was  duly  fascinated. 

To  an  habitual  onlooker  like  myself,  the  whole  thing 
was  clear,  and  I  must  quite  admit  that  much  of  my 
first  instinctive  dislike — and  dislike  is  really  too  strong 


82  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

a  word — evaporated.  She  went  out  of  her  way  to 
be  charming  to  me,  not  that  I  could  be  of  any  use  to 
the  old  boy,  but  merely  because  I  was  his  great  friend ; 
and  of  course  she  knew  that  I  realised — what  he  never 
dreamed  of — that  she  was  paving  the  way  to  pull  some 
really  big  strings  for  him  later. 

I  remember  saying  good-bye  to  her  one  afternoon 
after  a  luncheon,  at  which  I  had  watched  with  great 
interest  the  complete  capitulation  of  two  generals  and 
a  well-known  diplomatist. 

"You're  a  clever  man,  Mr.  Spud,"  she  murmured, 
with  that  charming  air  of  taking  one  into  her  con- 
fidence, with  which  a  woman  of  the  world  routs  the 

most  confirmed  misogynist.  "If  only  Ginger " 

She  broke  off  and  sighed :  just  the  suggestion  of  a 
sigh;  but  sufficient  to  imply — lots. 

"My  lady,"  I  answered,  "keep  him  fit;  make  him 
take  exercise:  above  all  things  don't  let  him  get  fat. 
Even  you  would  be  powerless  with  a  fat  husband. 
But  provided  you  keep  him  thin,  and  never  let  him 
decide  anything  for  himself,  he  will  live  to  be  a  last- 
ing monument  and  example  of  what  a  woman  can  do. 
And  warriors  and  statesmen  shall  bow  down  and 
worship,  what  time  they  drink  tea  in  your  boudoir  and 
eat  buns  from  your  hand.  Bismillah !" 

But  time  is  short,  and  these  details  are  trifling. 
Only  once  again,  old  pal,  I  am  living  in  the  days 


SPUD  TREVOR  OF  THE  RED  HUSSARS  83 

when  I  moved  in  the  pleasant  paths  of  life,  and  the 
temptation  to  linger  is  strong.  Bear  with  me  a  mo- 
ment. I  am  a  sybarite  for  the  moment  in  spirit:  in 
reality — God!  how  it  hurts. 

"Gentlemen  rankers  out  on  the  spree, 
Damned  from  here  to  eternity: 
God  have  mercy  on  such  as  we. 
Bah!     Yah!     Bah!" 

I  never  thought  I  should  live  to  prove  Kipling's 
lines.  But  that's  what  I  am — a  gentleman  ranker; 
going  out  to  the  war  of  wars — a  private.  I,  and 
that's  the  bitterest  part  of  it,  I,  who  had,  as  you 
know  full  well,  always,  for  years,  lived  for  this  war, 
the  war  against  those  cursed  Germans.  I  knew  it 
was  coming — you'll  bear  me  witness  of  that  fact — 
and  the  cruel  irony  of  fate  that  has  made  that  very 
knowledge  my  downfall  is  not  the  lightest  part  of 
the  little  bundle  fate  has  thrown  on  my  shoulders. 
Yes,  old  man,  we're  getting  near  the  motives  now; 
but  all  in  good  time.  Let  me  lay  it  out  dramatically ; 
don't  rob  me  of  my  exit — I'm  feeling  a  bit  theatrical 
this  evening.  It  may  interest  you  to  know  that  I  saw 
Lady  Delton  to-day :  she's  a  V. A.D.,  and  did  not  rec- 
ognise me,  thank  Heaven ! 

(Need  I  say  again  that  Delton  is  not  the  name  he 
wrote.  Sufficient  that  she  and  Spud  knew  one  another 


84  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

•very  well,  in  other  days.  But  in  some  men  it  would 
have  emphasised  the  bitterness  of  spirit.) 

Let's  get  on  with  it.  A  couple  of  years  passed, 
and  the  summer  of  1912  found  me  in  New  York.  I 
was  temporarily  engaged  on  a  special  job  which  it  is 
unnecessary  to  specify.  It  was  not  a  very  impor- 
tant one,  but,  as  you  know,  a  gift  of  tongues  and  a 
liking  for  poking  my  nose  into  the  affairs  of  nations 
had  enabled  me  to  get  a  certain  amount  of  more  or 
less  diplomatic  work.  The  job  was  over,  and  I  was 
merely  marking  time  in  New  York  waiting  for  the 
Astoria  to  sail.  Two  days  before  she  was  due  to 
leave,  and  just  as  I  was  turning  into  the  doors  of  my 
hotel,  I  ran  full  tilt  into  von  Basel — a  very  decent 
fellow  in  the  Prussian  Guard — who  was  seconded  and 
doing  military  attache  work  in  America.  I'd  met  him 
off  and  on  hunting  in  England — one  of  the  few  Ger- 
mans I  know  who  really  went  well  to  hounds. 

"Hullo !  Trevor,"  he  said,  as  we  met.  "What  are 
you  doing  here?" 

"Marking  time,"  I  answered.  "Waiting  for  my 
boat." 

We  strolled  to  the  bar,  and  over  a  cocktail  he 
suggested  that  if  I  had  nothing  better  to  do  I  might 
as  well  come  to  some  official  ball  that  was  on  that 
evening.  "I  can  get  you  a  card,"  he  remarked.  "You 


SPUD  TREVOR  OF  THE  RED  HUSSARS  85 

ought  to  come ;  your  friend,  Mrs.  Bathurst — Comtesse 
de  Grecin  that  was — is  going  to  be  present." 

"I'd  no  idea  she  was  this  side  of  the  water,"  I 
said,  surprised. 

"Oh,  yes!  Come  over  to  see  her  people  or  some- 
thing. Well !  will  you  come  ?" 

I  agreed,  having  nothing  else  on,  and  as  he  left 
the  hotel,  he  laughed.  "Funny  the  vagaries  of  fate. 
I  don't  suppose  I  come  into  this  hotel  once  in  three 
months.  I  only  came  down  this  evening  to  tell  a  man 
not  to  come  and  call  as  arranged,  as  my  kid  has  got 
measles — and  promptly  ran  into  you." 

Truly  the  irony  of  circumstances!  If  one  went 
back  far  enough,  one  might  find  that  the  determining 
factor  of  my  disgrace  was  the  quarrel  of  a  nurse  and 
her  lover  which  made  her  take  the  child  another  walk 
than  usual  and  pick  up  infection.  Dash  it  all!  you 
might  even  find  that  it  was  a  spot  on  her  nose 
that  made  her  do  so,  as  she  didn't  want  to  meet  him 
when  not  looking  at  her  best !  But  that  way  madness 
lies. 

Whatever  the  original  cause — I  went:  and  in  due 
course  met  the  Comtesse.  She  gave  me  a  couple  of 
dances,  and  I  found  that  she,  too,  had  booked  her 
passage  on  the  Astoria.  I  met  very  few  people  I 
knew,  and  having  found  it  the  usual  boring  stunt,  I 
decided  to  get  a  glass  of  champagne  and  a  sandwich 


86  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

and  then  retire  to  bed.  I  took  them  along  to  a  small 
alcove  where  I  could  smoke  a  cigarette  in  peace,  and 
sat  down.  It  was  as  I  sat  down  that  I  heard  from 
behind  a  curtain  which  completely  screened  me  from 
view,  the  words  "English  Army"  spoken  in  German. 
And  the  voice  was  the  voice  of  the  Comtesse. 

Nothing  very  strange  in  the  words  you  say,  seeing 
that  she  spoke  German,  as  well  as  several  other  lan- 
guages, fluently.  Perhaps  not — but  you  know  what 
my  ideas  used  to  be — how  I  was  obsessed  with  the 
spy  theory:  at  any  rate,  I  listened.  I  listened  for 
a  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  then  I  got  my  coat  and 
went  home — went  home  to  try  and  see  a  way  through 
just  about  the  toughest  proposition  I'd  ever  been  up 
against.  For  the  Comtesse — Ginger  Bathurst's  idol- 
ised wife — was  hand  in  glove  with  the  German  Secret 
Service.  She  was  a  spy,  not  of  the  wireless  installa- 
tion up  the  chimney  type,  not  of  the  document-steal- 
ing type,  but  of  a  very  much  more  dangerous  type 
than  either,  the  type  it  is  almost  impossible  to  incrim- 
inate. 

I  can't  remember  the  conversation  I  overheard 
exactly,  I  cannot  give  it  to  you  word  for  word,  but 
I  will  give  you  the  substance  of  it.  Her  companion 
was  von  Basel's  chief — a  typical  Prussian  officer  of 
the  most  overbearing  description. 

"How  goes  it  with  you,  Comtesse?"  he  asked  her, 


SPUD  TREVOR  OF  THE  RED  HUSSARS    87 

and  I  heard  the  scrape  of  a  match  as  he  lit  a  cigarette. 

"Well,  Baron,  very  well." 

"They  do  not  suspect?" 

"Not  an  atom.  The  question  has  never  been  raised 
even  as  to  my  national  sympathies,  except  once,  and 
then  the  suggestion — not  forced  or  emphasised  in  any 
way — that,  as  the  child  of  a  family  who  had  lost  every- 
thing in  the  '70  war,  my  sympathies  were  not  hard  to 
discover,  was  quite  sufficient.  That  was  at  the  time 
of  the  Agadir  crisis." 

"And  you  do  not  desire  revanche?" 

"My  dear  man,  I  desire  money.  My  husband  with 
his  pay  and  private  income  has  hardly  enough  to  dress 
me  on." 

"But,  dear  lady,  why,  if  I  may  ask,  did  you  marry 
him  ?  With  so  many  others  for  her  choice,  surely  the 
Comtesse  de  Grecin  could  have  commanded  the 
world?" 

"Charming  as  a  phrase,  but  I  assure  you  that  the 
idea  of  the  world  at  one's  feet  is  as  extinct  as  the  dodo. 
No,  Baron,  you  may  take  it  from  me  he  was  the  best 
I  could  do.  A  rising  junior  soldier,  employed  on  a 
staff  job  at  the  War  Office,  persona  grata  with  all  the 
people  who  really  count  in  London  by  reason  of  his 
family,  and  moreover  infatuated  with  his  charming 
wife."  Her  companion  gave  a  guttural  chuckle;  I 
could  feel  him  leering.  "I  give  the  best  dinners  in 


88  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

London;  the  majority  of  his  senior  officers  think  I 
am  on  the  verge  of  running  away  with  them,  and  when 
they  become  too  obstreperous,  I  allow  them  to  kiss 
my — fingers. 

"Listen  to  me,  Baron,"  she  spoke  rapidly,  in  a 
low  voice  so  that  I  could  hardly  catch  what  she  said. 
"I  have  already  given  information  about  some  con- 
fidential big  howitzer  trials  which  I  saw;  it  was 
largely  on  my  reports  that  action  was  stopped  at 
Agadir;  and  there  are  many  other  things — things 
intangible,  in  a  certain  sense — points  of  view,  the  state 
of  feeling  in  Ireland,  the  conditions  of  labour,  which 
I  am  able  to  hear  the  inner  side  of,  in  a  way  quite 
impossible  if  I  had  not  the  entree  into  that  particular 
class  of  English  society  which  I  now  possess.  Not 
the  so-called  smart  set,  you  understand;  but  the  real 
ruling  set — the  leading  soldiers,  the  leading  diplomats. 
Of  course  they  are  discreet " 

"But  you  are  a  woman  and  a  peerless  one,  chere 
Comtesse.  I  think  we  may  leave  that  cursed  country 
in  your  hands  with  perfect  safety.  And,  sooner  per- 
haps than  even  we  realise,  we  may  see  der  Tag." 

Such  then  was  briefly  the  conversation  I  overheard. 
As  I  said,  it  is  not  given  word  for  word — but  that  is 
immaterial.  What  was  I  to  do?  That  was  the  point 
which  drummed  through  my  head  as  I  walked  back 
to  my  hotel ;  that  was  the  point  which  was  still  drum- 


SPUD  TREVOR  OF  THE  RED  HUSSARS    89 

ming  through  my  head  as  the  dawn  came  stealing  in 
through  my  window.  Put  yourself  in  my  place,  old 
man ;  what  would  you  have  done  ? 

I,  alone,  of  everyone  who  knew  her  in  London, 
had  stumbled  by  accident  on  the  truth.  Bathurst 
idolised  her,  and  she  exaggerated  no  whit  when  she 
boasted  that  she  had  the  entree  to  the  most  exclusive 
circle  in  England.  I  know;  I  was  one  of  it  myself. 
And  though  one  realises  that  it  is  only  in  plays  and 
novels  that  Cabinet  Ministers  wander  about  whisper- 
ing State  secrets  into  the  ears  of  beautiful  adven- 
turesses, yet  one  also  knows  in  real  life  how  devilish 
dangerous  a  really  pretty  and  fascinating  woman  can 
be — especially  when  she's  bent  on  finding  things  out 
and  is  clever  enough  to  put  two  and  two  together. 

Take  one  thing  alone,  and  it  was  an  aspect  of  the 
case  that  particularly  struck  me.  Supposing  diplo- 
matic relations  became  strained  between  us  and  Ger- 
many— and  I  firmly  believed,  as  you  know,  that  sooner 
or  later  they  would;  supposing  mobilisation  was 
ordered — a  secret  one;  suppose  any  of  the  hundred 
and  one  things  which  would  be  bound  to  form  a  pre- 
lude to  a  European  war — and  which  at  all  costs  must 
be  kept  secret — had  occurred;  think  of  the  incal- 
culable danger  a  clever  woman  in  her  position  might 
have  been,  however  discreet  her  husband  was.  And, 
my  dear  old  boy,  you  know  Ginger ! 


90  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

Supposing  the  Expeditionary  Force  were  on  the 
point  of  embarkation.  A  wife  might  guess  their  port 
of  departure  and  arrival  by  an  artless  question  or 
two  as  to  where  her  husband  on  the  Staff  had  motored 
to  that  day.  But  why  go  on  ?  You  see  what  I  mean. 
Only  to  me,  at  that  time — and  now  I  might  almost 
say  that  I  am  glad  events  have  justified  me — it  ap- 
pealed even  more  than  it  would  have,  say,  to  you.  For 
I  was  so  convinced  of  the  danger  that  threatened  us. 

But  what  was  I  to  do?  It  was  only  my  word 
against  hers.  Tell  Ginger?  The  idea  made  even  me 
laugh.  Tell  the  generals  and  the  diplomatists  ?  They 
didn't  want  to  kiss  my  hand.  Tell  some  big  bug  in 
the  Secret  Service?  Yes — that  anyway;  but  she  was 
such  a  devilish  clever  woman,  that  I  had  but  little 
faith  in  such  a  simple  remedy,  especially  as  most  of 
them  patronised  her  dinners  themselves. 

Still,  that  was  the  only  thing  to  be  done — that,  and 
to  keep  a  look-out  myself,  for  I  was  tolerably  certain 
she  did  not  suspect  me.  Why  should  she? 

And  so  in  due  course  I  found  myself  sitting  next 
her  at  dinner  as  the  Astoria  started  her  journey  across 
the  water. 

I  am  coming  to  the  climax  of  the  drama,  old  man; 
I  shall  not  bore  you  much  longer.  But  before  I  ac- 
tually give  you  the  details  of  what  occurred  on  that 


SPUD  TREVOR  OF  THE  RED  HUSSARS    91 

ill-fated  vessel's  last  trip,  I  want  to  make  sure  that 
you  realise  the  state  of  mind  I  was  in,  and  the  action 
that  I  had  decided  on.  Firstly,  I  was  convinced  that 
my  dinner  partner — the  wife  of  one  of  my  best  friends 
— was  an  unscrupulous  spy.  That  the  evidence  would 
not  have  hung  a  fly  in  a  court  of  law  was  not  the 
point;  the  evidence  was  my  own  hearing,  which  was 
good  enough  for  me. 

Secondly,  I  was  convinced  that  she  occupied  a  posi- 
tion in  society  which  rendered  it  easy  for  her  to  get 
hold  of  the  most  invaluable  information  in  the  event 
of  a  war  between  us  and  Germany. 

Thirdly,  I  was  convinced  that  there  would  be  a  war 
between  us  and  Germany. 

So  much  for  my  state  of  mind ;  now,  for  my  course 
of  action. 

I  had  decided  to  keep  a  watch  on  her,  and,  if  I  could 
get  hold  of  the  slightest  incriminating  evidence,  expose 
her  secretly,  but  mercilessly,  to  the  Secret  Service.  If 
I  could  not — and  if  I  realised  there  was  danger  brew- 
ing— to  inform  the  Secret  Service  of  what  I  had  heard, 
and,  sacrificing  Ginger's  friendship  if  necessary,  and 
my  own  reputation  for  chivalry,  swear  away  her  hon- 
our, or  anything,  provided  only  her  capacity  for  ob- 
taining information  temporarily  ceased.  Once  that 
was  done,  then  face  the  music,  and  be  accused,  if  needs 
be,  of  false  swearing,  unrequited  love,  jealousy,  what 


£2  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

you  will.  But  to  destroy  her  capacity  for  harm  to 
my  country  was  my  bounden  duty,  whatever  the  so- 
cial or  personal  results  to  me. 

And  there  was  one  other  thing — and  on  this  one  thing 
the  whole  course  of  the  matter  was  destined  to  hang :  / 
alone  could  do  it,  for  I  alone  knew  the  truth.  Let  that 
sink  in,  old  son ;  grasp  it,  realise  it,  and  read  my  future 
actions  by  the  light  of  that  one  simple  fact. 

I  can  see  you  sit  back  in  your  chair,  and  look  into 
the  fire  with  the  light  of  comprehension  dawning  in 
your  eyes;  it  does  put  the  matter  in  a  different  com- 
plexion, doesn't  it,  my  friend?  You  begin  to  appre- 
ciate the  motives  that  impelled  me  to  sacrifice  a  wom- 
an's life;  so  far  so  good.  You  are  even  mag- 
nanimous :  what  is  one  woman  compared  to  the  dan- 
ger of  a  nation? 

Dear  old  boy,  I  drink  a  silent  toast  to  you.  Have 
you  no  suspicions?  What  if  the  woman  I  sacrificed 
was  the  Comtesse  herself?  Does  it  surprise  you; 
wasn't  it  the  God-sent  solution  to  everything? 

Just  as  a  freak  of  fate  had  acquainted  me  with  her 
secret;  so  did  a  freak  of  fate  throw  me  in  her  path 
at  the  end.  .  .  . 

We  hit  an  iceberg,  as  you  may  remember,  in  the 
middle  of  the  night,  and  the  ship  foundered  in  under 
twenty  minutes. 

You  can  imagine  the  scene  of  chaos  after  we  struck, 


SPUD  TREVOR  OF  THE  RED  HUSSARS  93 

or  rather  you  can't.  Men  were  running  wildly  about 
shouting,  women  were  screaming,  and  the  roar  of  the 
siren  bellowing  forth  into  the  night  drove  people  to  a 
perfect  frenzy.  Then  all  the  lights  went  out,  and 
darkness  settled  down  like  a  pall  on  the  ship.  I  strug- 
gled up  on  deck,  which  was  already  tilting  up  at  a 
perilous  angle,  and  there — in  the  mass  of  scurrying 
figures — I  came  face  to  face  with  the  Comtesse.  In 
the  panic  of  the  moment  I  had  forgotten  all  about  her. 
She  was  quite  calm,  and  smiled  at  me,  for  of  course 
our  relations  were  still  as  before. 

Suddenly  there  came  the  shout  from  close  at  hand, 
"Room  for  one  more  only."  What  happened  then, 
happened  in  a  couple  of  seconds;  it  will  take  me  longer 
to  describe. 

There  flashed  into  my  mind  what  would  occur  if  I 
were  drowned  and  the  Comtesse  was  saved.  There 
would  be  no  one  to  combat  her  activities  in  England; 
she  would  have  a  free  hand.  My  plans  were  null  and 
void  if  I  died;  I  must  get  back  to  England — or  Eng- 
land would  be  in  peril.  I  must  pass  on  my  informa- 
tion to  someone^-for  I  alone  knew. 

"Hurry  up!  one  more."  Another  shout  from  near 
by,  and  looking  round  I  saw  that  we  were  alone.  It 
was  she  or  I. 

She  moved  towards  the  boat,  and  as  she  did  so  I 
saw  the  only  possible  solution — I  saw  what  I  then 


94  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

thought  to  be  my  duty ;  what  I  still  consider — and,  God 
knows,  that  scene  is  never  long  out  of  my  mind — what 
I  still  consider  to  have  been  my  duty.  I  took  her  by 
the  arm  and  twisted  her  facing  me. 

"As  Ginger's  wife,  yes,"  I  muttered;  "as  the  cursed 
spy  I  know  you  to  be,  no — a  thousand  times  no." 

"My  God !"  she  whispered.     "My  God !" 

Without  further  thought  I  pushed  by  her  and 
stepped  into  the  boat,  which  was  actually  being  low- 
ered into  the  water.  Two  minutes  later  the  Astoria 
sank,  and  she  went  down  with  her.  .  .  . 

That  is  what  occurred  that  night  in  mid- Atlantic.  I 
make  no  excuses,  I  offer  no  palliation;  I  merely  state 
facts. 

Only  had  I  not  heard  what  I  did  hear  in  that  alcove 
she  would  have  been  just — Ginger's  wife.  Would  the- 
Expeditionary  Force  have  crossed  so  successfully,  I 
wonder  ? 

As  I  say,  I  did  what  I  still  consider  to  have  been  my 
duty.  If  both  could  have  been  saved,  well  and  good; 
but  if  it  was  only  one,  it  had  to  be  me,  or  neither. 
That's  the  rub ;  should  it  have  been  neither  ? 

Many  times  since  then,  old  friend,  has  tne  white 
twitching  face  of  that  woman  haunted  me  in  my 
dreams  and  in  my  waking  hours.  Many  times  since 
then  have  I  thought  that — spy  or  no  spy — I  had  no 
right  to  save  my  life  at  her  expense;  I  should  have 


SPUD  TREVOR  OF  THE  RED  HUSSARS    95 

gone  down  with  her.  Quixotical,  perhaps,  seeing  she 
was  what  she  was ;  but  she  was  a  woman.  One  thing 
and  one  thing  only  I  can  say.  When  you  read  these 
lines,  I  shall  be  dead ;  they  will  come  to  you  as  a  voice 
from  the  dead.  And,  as  a  man  who  faces  his  Maker, 
I  tell  you,  with  a  calm  certainty  that  I  am  not  deceiv- 
ing myself,  that  that  night  there  was  no  trace  of  cow- 
ardice in  my  mind.  It  was  not  a  desire  to  save  my 
own  life  that  actuated  me;  it  was  the  fear  of  danger 
to  England.  An  error  of  judgment  possibly;  an  act 
of  cowardice — no.  That  much  I  state,  and  that  much 
I  demand  that  you  believe. 

And  now  we  come  to  the  last  chapter — the  chapter 
that  you  know.  I'd  been  back  about  two  months  when 
I  first  realised  that  there  were  stories  going  round 
about  me.  There  were  whispers  in  the  club;  men 
avoided  me;  women  cut  me.  Then  came  the  dreadful 
night  when  a  man — half  drunk — in  the  club  accused 
me  of  cowardice  point-blank,  and  sneer ingly  contrasted 
my  previous  reputation  with  my  conduct  on  the 
Astoria.  And  I  realised  that  someone  must  have  seen. 
I  knocked  that  swine  in  the  club  down;  but  the  whis- 
pers grew.  I  knew  it.  Someone  had  seen,  and  it  would 
be  sheer  hypocrisy  on  my  part  to  pretend  that  such 
a  thing  didn't  matter.  It  mattered  everything :  it  ended 
me.  The  world — our  world — judges  deeds,  not  men- 


96  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

lives ;  and  even  had  I  published  at  the  time  this  docu- 
ment I  am  sending  to  you,  our  world  would  have  found 
me  guilty.  They  would  have  said  what  you  would 
have  said  had  you  spoken  the  thoughts  I  saw  in  your 
eyes  that  night  I  came  to  you.  They  would  have  said 
that  a  sudden  wave  of  cowardice  had  overwhelmed  me, 
and  that  brought  face  to  face  with  death  I  had  saved 
my  own  life  at  the  expense  of  a  woman's.  Many  would 
have  gone  still  further,  and  said  that  my  black  cow- 
ardice was  rendered  blacker  still  by  my  hypocrisy  in 
inventing  such  a  story;  that  first  to  kill  the  woman, 
and  then  to  blacken  her  reputation  as  an  excuse, 
showed  me  as  a  thing  unfit  to  live.  I  know  the  world. 
Moreover,  as  far  as  I  knew  then — I  am  sure  of  it 
now — whoever  it  was  who  saw  my  action,  did  not 
see  who  the  woman  was,  and  therefore  the  publication 
of  this  document  at  that  time  would  have  involved 
Ginger,  for  it  would  have  been  futile  to  publish  it  with- 
out names.  Feeling  as  I  did  that  perhaps  I  should 
have  sunk  with  her;  feeling  as  I  did  that,  for  good 
or  evil,  I  had  blasted  Ginger's  life,  I  simply  couldn't 
do  it.  You  didn't  believe  in  me,  old  chap ;  at  the  bot- 
tom of  their  hearts  all  my  old  pals  thought  I'd  shown 
the  yellow  streak;  and  I  couldn't  stick  it.  So  I  went 
to  the  Colonel,  and  told  him  I  was  handing  in  my 
papers.  He  was  in  his  quarters,  I  remember,  and 
started  filling  his  pipe  as  I  was  speaking. 


SPUD  TREVOR  OF  THE  RED  HUSSARS    97 

"Why,  Spud?"  he  asked,  when  I  told  him  my  in- 
tention. 

And  then  I  told  him  something  of  what  I  have  writ- 
ten to  you.  I  said  it  to  him  in  confidence,  and  when 
I'd  finished  he  sat  very  silent. 

"Good  God!"  he  muttered  at  length.  "Ginger's 
wife!" 

"You  believe  me,  Colonel?"  I  asked. 

"Spud,"  he  said,  putting  his  hands  on  my  shoulders, 
"that's  a  damn  rotten  thing  to  ask  me — after  fifteen 
years.  But  it's  the  regiment."  And  he  fell  to  staring 
at  the  fire. 

Aye,  that  was  it.  It  was  the  regiment  that  mattered. 
For  better  or  for  worse  I  had  done  what  I  had  done, 
and  it  was  my  show.  The  Red  Hussars  must  not  be 
made  to  suffer;  and  their  reputation  would  have  suf- 
fered through  me.  Otherwise  I'd  have  faced  it  out. 
As  it  was,  I  had  to  go;  I  knew  it.  I'd  come  to  the 
same  decision  myself. 

Only  now,  sitting  here  in  camp  with  the  setting  sun 
glinting  through  the  windows  of  the  hut,  just  a  Ca- 
nadian private  under  an  assumed  name,  things  are  a 
little  different.  The  regiment  is  safe;  I  must  think 
now  of  the  old  name.  The  Colonel  was  killed  at 
Cambrai ;  therefore  you  alone  will  be  in  possession  of 
the  facts.  Ginger,  if  he  reads  these  words,  will  per- 
haps forgive  me  for  the  pain  I  have  inflicted  on  him. 


98  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

Let  him  remember  that  though  I  did  a  dreadful  thing 
to  him,  a  thing  which  up  to  now  he  has  been  ignorant 
of,  yet  I  suffered  much  for  his  sake  after.  During  my 
life  it  was  one  thing;  when  I  am  dead  his  claims  must 
give  way  to  a  greater  one — my  name. 

Wherefore  I,  Patrick  Courtenay  Trevor,  having  the 
unalterable  intention  of  meeting  my  Maker  during  the 
present  war,  and  therefore  feeling  in  a  measure  that  I 
am,  even  as  I  write,  standing  at  the  threshold  of  His 
Presence,  do  swear  before  Almighty  God  that  what  I 
have  written  is  the  truth,  the  whole  truth,  and  nothing 
but  the  truth.  So  help  me,  God. 

•  »•»'  .  * 

The  fall-in  is  going,  old  man.    Good-bye. 


CHAPTER  IVi 

THE  FATAL  SECOND 

IT  was  in  July  of  1914— on  the  Saturday  of  Henley 
Week.  People  who  were  there  may  remember 
that,  for  once  in  a  way,  our  fickle  climate  was  pleased 
to  smile  upon  us. 

Underneath  the  wall  of  Phyllis  Court  a  punt  was 
tied  up.  The  prizes  had  been  given  away,  and  the 
tightly  packed  boats  surged  slowly  up  and  down  the 
river,  freed  at  last  from  the  extreme  boredom  of 
watching  crews  they  did  not  know  falling  exhausted 
out  of  their  boats.  In  the  punt  of  which  I  speak  were 
three  men  and  a  girl.  One  of  the  men  was  myself,  who 
have  no  part  in  this  episode,  save  the  humble  one  of 
narrator.  The  other  three  were  the  principals ;  I  would 
have  you  make  their  acquaintance.  I  would  hurriedly 
say  that  it  is  not  the  old,  old  story  of  a  woman  and 
two  men,  for  one  of  the  men  was  her  brother. 

To  begin  with — the  girl.  Pat  Delawnay — she  was 
always  called  Pat,  as  she  didn't  look  like  a  Patricia — 
was  her  name,  and  she  was — well,  here  I  give  in.  I 
don't  know  the  colour  of  her  eyes,  nor  can  I  say  with 

99 


ioo  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

any  certainty  the  colour  of  her  hair;  all  I  know  is  that 
she  looked  as  if  the  sun  had  come  from  heaven  and 
kissed  her,  and  had  then  gone  back  again  satisfied  with 
his  work.  She  was  a  girl  whom  to  know  was  to  love — • 
the  dearest,  most  understanding  soul  in  God's  whole 
earth.  I'd  loved  her  myself  since  I  was  out  of  petti- 
coats. 

Then  there  was  Jack  Delawnay,  her  brother.  Two 
years  younger  he  was,  and  between  the  two  of  them 
there  was  an  affection  and  love  which  is  frequently 
conspicuous  by  its  absence  between  brother  and  sister. 
He  was  a  cheery  youngster,  a  good-looking  boy,  and 
fellows  in  the  regiment  liked  him.  He  rode  straight, 
and  he  had  the  money  to  keep  good  cattle.  In  addi- 
tion, the  men  loved  him,  and  that  means  a  lot  when 
you  size  up  an  officer. 

And  then  there  was  the  other.  Older  by  ten  years 
than  the  boy — the  same  age  as  myself — Jerry  Dixon 
was  my  greatest  friend.  We  had  fought  together 
at  school,  played  the  ass  together  at  Sandhurst,  and 
entered  the  regiment  on  the  same  day.  He  had  "A" 
company  and  I  had  "C,"  and  the  boy  was  one  of  his 
subalterns.  Perhaps  I  am  biassed,  but  to  me  Jerry 
Dixon  had  one  of  the  finest  characters  I  have  ever 
seen  in  any  man.  He  was  no  Galahad,  no  prig;  he 
was  just  a  man,  a  white  man.  He  had  that  cheerily 
ugly  face  which  is  one  of  the  greatest  gifts  a  man 


THE  FATAL  SECOND  101 

can  have,  and  he  also  had  Pat  as  his  fiancee,  which  was 
another. 

My  name  is  immaterial,  but  everyone  calls  me 
.Winkle,  owing  to Well,  some  day  I  may  tell  you. 

The  regiment,  our  regiment,  was  the,  let  us  call  it 
the  Downshires. 

We  had  come  over  from  Aldershot  and  were  week- 
ending at  the  Delawnays'  place — they  always  took 
one  on  the  river  for  Henley.  At  the  moment  Jerry 
was  holding  forth,  quite  unmoved  by  exhortations  to 
"Get  out  and  get  under"  bawled  in  his  ears  by  black- 
ened gentlemen  of  doubtful  voice  and  undoubted 
inebriation. 

As  I  write,  the  peculiar — the  almost  sinister — nature 
of  his  conversation,  in  the  light  of  future  events, 
seems  nothing  short  of  diabolical.  And  yet  at  the 
time  we  were  just  three  white-flannelled  men  and  a 
girl  with  a  great  floppy  hat  lazing  over  tea  in  a  punt. 
How  the  gods  must  have  laughed ! 

"My  dear  old  Winkle" — he  was  lighting  a  cigar- 
ette as  he  spoke — "you  don't  realise  the  deeper  side 
of  soldiering  at  all.  The  subtle  nuances  (French,  Pat, 
in  case  my  accent  is  faulty)  are  completely  lost  upon 
you." 

I  remember  '  smiling  to  myself  as  I  heard  Jerry 
getting  warmed  up  to  his  subject,  and  then  my  atten- 
tion wandered,  and  I  dozed  off.  I  had  heard  it  all 


102  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

before  so  often  from  the  dear  old  boy.  We  always 
used  to  chaff  him  about  it  in  the  mess.  I  can  see 
him  now,  after  dinner,  standing  with  his  back  to  the 
ante-room  fire,  a  whisky-and-soda  in  his  hand  and  a 
dirty  old  pipe  between  his  teeth. 

"It's  all  very  well  for  you  fellows  to  laugh,"  he 
would  say,  "but  I'm  right  for  all  that.  It  is  abso- 
lutely essential  to  think  out  beforehand  what  one 
would  do  in  certain  exceptional  eventualities,  so  that 
when  that  eventuality  does  arise  you  won't  waste  any 
time,  but  will  automatically  do  the  right  thing." 

And  then  the  adjutant  recalled  in  a  still  small  voice 
how  he  first  realised  the  orderly-room  sergeant's  baby 
was  going  to  be  sick  in  his  arms  at  the  regiment's 
Christmas-tree  festivities,  and,  instead  of  throwing  it 
on  the  floor,  he  had  clung  to  it  for  that  fatal  second 
of  indecision.  As  he  admitted,  it  was  certainly  not 
one  of  the  things  he  had  thought  out  beforehand. 

He's  gone,  too,  has  old  Bellairs  the  adjutant.  I 
wonder  how  many  fellows  I'll  know  when  I  get  back 
to  them  next  week  ?  But  I'm  wandering. 

"Winkle,  wake  up !"  It  was  Pat  speaking.  "Jerry 
is  being  horribly  serious,  and  I'm  not  at  all  certain 
it  will  be  safe  to  marry  him;  he'll  be  experimenting 
on  me." 

"What's  he  been  saying?"  I  murmured  sleepily. 

"He's  been  thinking  what  he'd  do,"  laughed  Jack, 


THE  FATAL  SECOND  103 

"if  the  stout  female  personage  in  yonder  small  canoe 
overbalanced  and  fell  in.  There'll  be  no  fatal  second 
then,  Jerry,  my  boy.  It'll  be  a  minute  even  if  I  have 
to  hold  you.  You'd  never  be  able  to  look  your  friends 
in  the  face  again  if  you  didn't  let  her  drown." 

"Ass!"  grunted  Jerry.  "No,  Winkle,  I  was  just 
thinking,  amongst  other  things,  of  what  might  very 
easily  happen  to  any  of  us  three  here,  and  what  did 
happen  to  old  Grantley  in  South  Africa."  Grantley 
was  one  of  our  majors.  "He  told  me  all  about  it  one 
day  in  one  of  his  expansive  moods.  It  was  during  a 
bit  of  a  scrap  just  before  Paardeburg,  and  he  had  some 
crowd  of  irregular  Johnnies.  He  was  told  off  to  take 
a  position,  and  apparently  it  was  a  fairly  warm  propo- 
sition. However,  it  was  perfectly  feasible  if  only  the 
men  stuck  it.  Well,  they  didn't,  but  they  would  have 
except  for  his  momentary  indecision.  He  told  me 
that  there  came  a  moment  in  the  advance  when  one 
man  wavered.  He  knew  it  and  felt  it  all  through 
him.  He  saw  the  man — he  almost  saw  the  deadly  con- 
tagion spreading  from  that  one  man  to  the  others — 
and  he  hesitated  and  was  lost.  When  he  sprang  for- 
ward and  tried  to  hold  'em,  he  failed.  The  fear  was 
on  them,  and  they  broke.  He  told  me  he  regarded 
himself  as  every  bit  as  much  to  blame  as  the  man  who 
first  gave  out." 

"But  what  could  he  have  done,  Jerry?"  asked  Pat. 


104  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

"Shot  him,  dear — shot  him  on  the  spot  without  a 
second's  thought — killed  the  origin  of  the  fear  before 
it  had  time  to  spread.  I  venture  to  say  that  there 
are  not  many  fellows  in  the  Service  who  would  do  it 
— without  thinking:  and  you  can't  think — you  dare 
not,  even  if  there  was  time.  It  goes  against  the  grain, 
especially  if  you  know  the  man  well,  and  it's  only  by 
continually  rehearsing  the  scene  in  your  mind  that 
you'd  be  able  to  do  it." 

We  were  all  listening  to  him  now,  for  this  was  a 
new  development  I'd  never  heard  before. 

"Just  imagine  the  far-reaching  results  one  coward 
— no,  not  coward,  possibly — but  one  man  who  has 
reached  the  breaking-point,  may  have.  Think  of  it, 
Winkle.  A  long  line  stretched  out,  attacking.  One 
man  in  the  centre  wavers,  stops.  Spreading  out- 
wards, the  thing  rushes  like  lightning,  because,  after 
all,  fear  is  only  an  emotion,  like  joy  and  sorrow,  and 
one  knows  how  quickly  they  will  communicate  them- 
selves to  other  people.  Also,  in  such  a  moment  as 
an  attack,  men  are  particularly  susceptible  to  emo- 
tions. All  that  is  primitive  is  uppermost,  and  their 
reasoning  powers  are  more  or  less  in  abeyance." 

"But  the  awful  thing,  Jerry,"  said  Pat  quietly,  "is 
that  you  would  never  know  whether  it  had  been  neces- 
sary or  not.  It  might  not  have  spread ;  he  might  have 


THE  FATAL  SECOND  105 

answered  to  your  voice — oh !  a  thousand  things  might 
have  happened." 

"It's  not  worth  the  risk,  dear.  One  man's  life  is 
not  worth  the  risk.  It's  a  risk  you  just  dare  not  take. 
It  may  mean  everything — it  may  mean  failure — it  may 
mean  disgrace."  He  paused  and  looked  steadily  across 
the  shifting  scene  of  gaiety  and  colour,  while  a  long 
bamboo  pole  with  a  little  bag  on  the  end,  wielded  by 
some  passing  vocalist,  was  thrust  towards  him  un- 
heeded. Then  with  a  short  laugh  he  pulled  himself 
together,  and  lit  a  cigarette.  "But  enough  of  dull  care. 
Let  us  away,  and  gaze  upon  beautiful  women  and  brave 
men.  What's  that  little  tune  they're  playing?" 

"That's  that  waltz — what  the  deuce  is  the  name, 
Pat?"  asked  Jack,  untying  the  punt. 

"  'Destiny,' "  answered  Pat  briefly,  and  we  passed 
out  into  the  stream. 

A  month  afterwards  we  three  were  again  at  Henley, 
not  in  flannels  in  a  punt  on  the  river,  but  in  khaki, 
with  a  motor  waiting  at  the  door  of  the  Delawnays' 
house  to  take  us  back  to  Aldershot.  I  do  not  pro- 
pose to  dwell  over  the  scene,  but  in  the  setting  down 
of  the  story  it  cannot  be  left  out.  Europe  was  at 
war;  the  long-expected  by  those  scoffed-at  alarmists 
had  actually  come.  England  and  Germany  were  at 
each  other's  throats. 


106  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

Inside  the  house  Jack  was  with  his  mother.  Per- 
sonally, I  was  standing  in  the  garden  with  the  grey- 
haired  father;  and  Jerry  was — well,  where  else  could 
he  have  been? 

As  is  the  way  with  men,  we  discussed  the  roses, 
and  the  rascality  of  the  Germans,  and  everything 
except  what  was  in  our  hearts.  And  in  one  of  the 
pauses  in  our  spasmodic  conversation  we  heard  her 
voice,  just  over  the  hedge : 

"God  guard  and  keep  you,  my  man,  and  bring  you 
back  to  me  safe!"  And  the  voice  was  steady,  though 
one  could  feel  those  dear  eyes  dim  with  tears. 

And  then  Jerry's,  dear  old  Jerry's  voice — a  little 
bit  gruff  it  was,  and  a  little  bit  shaky:  "My  love! 
My  darling!" 

But  the  old  man  was  going  towards  the  house,  blow- 
ing his  nose ;  and  I — don't  hold  with  love  and  that  sort 
of  thing  at  all.  True,  I  blundered  into  a  flower-bed, 
which  I  didn't  see  clearly,  as  I  went  towards  the  car, 
for  there  are  things  which  one  may  not  hear  and 
remain  unmoved.  Perhaps,  if  things  had  been  differ- 
ent, and  Jerry — dear  old  Jerry — hadn't But 

there,  I'm  wandering  again. 

At  last  we  were  in  the  car  and  ready  to  start. 

"Take  care  of  him,  Jerry;  he  and  Pat  are  all  we've 
got."  It  was  Mrs.  Delawnay  speaking,  standing  there 


THE  FATAL  SECOND  107 

with  the  setting  sun  on  her  sweet  face  and  her  hus- 
band's arm  about  her. 

"I'll  be  all  right,  mater,"  answered  Jack  gruffly. 
"Buck  up !  Back  for  Christmas !" 

"I'll  look  after  him,  Mrs.  Delawnay,"  answered 
Jerry,  but  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  Pat,  and  for  him  the 
world  held  only  her. 

As  the  car  swung  out  of  the  gate,  we  looked  back 
the  last  time  and  saluted,  and  it  was  only  I  who  saw 
through  a  break  in  the  hedge  two  women  locked  in 
each  other's  arms,  while  a  grey-haired  gentleman  sat 
very  still  on  a  garden-seat,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
river  rolling  smoothly  by. 

It  was  on  the  Aisne  I  took  it.  Through  that  ghastly 
fourteen  days  we  had  slogged  dully  south  away  from 
Mons,  ever  getting  nearer  Paris.  Through  the  chok- 
ing dust,  with  the  men  staggering  as  they  walked — 
some  asleep,  some  babbling,  some  cursing — but  always 
marching,  marching,  marching;  digging  at  night,  only 
to  leave  the  trenches  in  two  hours  and  march  on  again  ; 
with  ever  and  anon  a  battery  of  horse  tearing  past  at  a 
gallop,  with  the  drivers  lolling  drunkenly  in  their  sad- 
dles, and  the  guns  jolting  and  swaying  behind  the 
straining,  sweating  horses,  to  come  into  action  on  some 
ridge  still  further  south,  and  try  to  check  von  Kluck's 
hordes,  if  only  for  a  little  space.  Every  bridge  in  the 


io8  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

hands  of  anxious-faced  sapper  officers,  prepared  for 
demolition  one  and  all,  but  not  to  be  blown  up  till  all 
our  troops  were  across.  Ticklish  work,  for  should 
there  be  a  fault,  there  is  not  much  time  to  repair  it. 

But  at  last  it  was  over,  and  we  turned  North.  A 
few  days  later,  in  the  afternoon,  my  company  crossed 
a  pontoon  bridge  on  the  Aisne,  and  two  hours  after- 
wards we  dug  ourselves  in  a  mile  and  a  half  beyond 
it.  The  next  morning,  as  I  was  sitting  in  one  of  the 
trenches,  there  was  a  sudden,  blinding  roar — and 
oblivion. 

I  will  pass  rapidly  over  the  next  six  weeks — over 
my  journey  from  the  clearing  hospital  to  the  base  at 
Havre,  of  my  voyage  back  to  England  in  a  hospital 
ship,  and  my  ultimate  arrival  at  Drayton  Hall,  the 
Delawnays'  place  in  Somerset,  where  I  had  gone  to 
convalesce. 

During  the  time  various  fragments  of  iron  were 
being  picked  from  me  and  the  first  shock  of  the  con- 
cussion was  wearing  off,  we  had  handed  over  our 
trenches  on  the  Aisne  to  the  French,  and  moved  north1 
to  Flanders. 

Occasional  scrawls  came  through  from  Jack  and 
Jerry,  but  the  people  in  England  who  had  any  know- 
ledge at  all  of  the  fighting  and  of  what  was  going  on, 
grew  to  dread  with  an  awful  dread  the  sight  of  the 


THE  FATAL  SECOND  109 

telegraph-boy,  and  it  required  an  effort  of  will  to 
look  at  those  prosaic  casualty  lists  in  the  morning 
papers. 

Then  suddenly  without  warning,  as  such  news 
always  does,  it  came.  The  War  Office,  in  the  shape 
of  a  whistling  telegraph-boy,  regretted  to  inform  Mr. 
Delawnay  that  his  son,  Lieutenant  Jack  Delawnay  of 
the  Royal  Downshire  Regiment,  had  been  killed  in 
action. 

Had  it  been  possible  during  the  terrible  days  after 
the  news  came,  I  would  have  gone  away,  but  I  was 
still  too  weak  to  move;  and  I  like  to  think  that,  per- 
haps, my  presence  there  was  some  comfort  to  them, 
as  a  sort  of  connection  through  the  regiment  with 
their  dead  boy.  After  the  first  numbing  shock,  the  old 
man  bore  it  grandly. 

"He  was  all  I  had,"  he  said  to  me  one  day  as  I 
lay  in  bed,  "but  I  give  him  gladly  for  his  country's 
sake."  He  stood  looking  at  the  broad  fields.  "All 
his,"  he  muttered;  "all  would  have  been  the  dear  lad's 
— and  now  six  inches  of  soil  and  a  wooden  cross,  per- 
haps not  that." 

And  Pat,  poor  little  Pat,  used  to  come  up  every  day 
and  sit  with  me,  sometimes  in  silence,  with  her  great 
eyes  fixed  on  the  fire,  sometimes  reading  the  paper, 
because  my  eyes  weren't  quite  right  yet. 

For  about  a  fortnight  after  the  news  we  did  not 


no  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

think  it  strange;  but  then,  as  day  by  day  went  by, 
the  same  fear  formulated  in  both  our  minds.  I  would 
have  died  sooner  than  whisper  it;  but  one  afternoon 
I  found  her  eyes  fixed  on  mine.  We  had  been  silent 
for  some  time,  and  suddenly  in  the  firelight  I  saw 
the  awful  fear  in  her  mind  as  clearly  as  if  she  had 
.spoken  it. 

"You're  thinking  it  too,  Winkle,"  she  whispered, 
leaning  forward.  "Why  hasn't  he  written?  Why 
hasn't  Jerry  written  one  line?  Oh,  my  God!  don't 
say  that  he  has  been " 

"Hush,  dear!"  I  said  quietly.  "His  people  would 
have  let  you  know  if  they  had  had  a  wire." 

"But,  Winkle,  the  Colonel  has  written  that  Jack 
died  while  gallantly  leading  a  counter  attack  to  recover 
lost  trenches.  Surely,  Jerry  would  have  found  time 
for  a  line,  unless  something  had  happened  to  him; 
Jack  was  actually  in  his  company." 

All  of  which  I  knew,  but  could  not  answer. 

'"Besides,"  she  went  on  after  a  moment,  "you  know 
how  dad  is  longing  for  details.  He  wants  to  know 
everything  about  Jack,  and  so  do  we  all.  But  oh, 
Winkle!  I  want  to  know  if  my  man  is  all  right. 
Brother  and  lover — not  both,  oh,  God — not  both!" 
The  choking  little  sobs  wrung  my  heart. 

The  next  day  we  got  a  wire  from  him.  He  was 
wounded  slightly  in  the  arm,  and  was  at  home.  He 


THE  FATAL  SECOND  in 

was  coming  to  us.  Just  that — no  more.  But,  oh! 
the  difference  to  the  girl.  Everything  explained,  every- 
thing clear,  and  the  next  day  Jerry  would  be  with  her. 
Only  as  I  lay  awake  that  night  thinking,  and  the  events 
of  the  last  three  weeks  passed  through  my  mind,  the 
same  thought  returned  with  maddening  persistency. 
Slightly  wounded  in  the  arm,  evidently  recently  as 
there  was  no  mention  in  the  casualty  list,  and  for  three 
weeks  no  line,  no  word.  And  then  I  cursed  myself  as 
an  ass  and  a  querulous  invalid. 

At  three  o'clock  he  arrived,  and  they  all  came  up 
to  my  room.  The  first  thing  that  struck  me  like  a 
blow  was  that  it  was  his  left  arm  which  was  hit — 
and  the  next  was  his  face.  Whether  Pat  had  noticed 
that  his  writing  arm  was  unhurt,  I  know  not;  but 
she  had  seen  the  look  in  his  eyes,  and  was  afraid. 

Then  he  told  the  story,  and  his  voice  was  as  the 
voice  of  the  dead.  Told  the  anxious,  eager  father 
and  mother  the  story  of  their  boy's  heroism.  How, 
having  lost  some  trenches,  the  regiment  made  a 
counter  attack  to  regain  them.  How  first  of  them 
all  was  Jack,  the  men  following  him,  as  they  always 
did,  until  a  shot  took  him  clean  through  the  heart, 
and  he  dropped,  leaving  the  regiment  to  surge  over 
him  for  the  last  forty  yards,  and  carry  out  gloriously 
what  they  had  been  going  to  do. 

And  then  the  old  man,  pulling  out  the  letter  from 


H2  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

the  Colonel,  and  trying  to  read  it  through  his  blinding 
tears:  "He  did  well,  my  boy,"  he  whispered,  "he 
did  well,  and  died  well.  But,  Jerry,  the  Colonel  says 
in  his  letter,"  and  he  wiped  his  eyes  and  tried  to  read, 
"he  says  in  his  letter  that  Jack  must  have  been  right 
into  their  trenches  almost,  as  he  was  killed  at  point- 
blank  range  with  a  revolver.  One  of  those  swine  of 
German  officers,  I  suppose."  He  shook  his  fist  in  the 
air.  "Still  he  was  but  doing  his  duty.  I  must  not 
complain.  But  you  say  he  was  forty  yards  away?" 

"It's  difficult  to  say,  sir,  in  the  dark,"  answered 
Jerry,  still  in  the  voice  of  an  automatic  machine.  "It 
may  have  been  less  than  forty." 

And  then  he  told  them  all  over  again;  and  while 
they,  the  two  old  dears,  whispered  and  cried  together, 
never  noticing  anything  amiss,  being  only  concerned 
with  the  telling,  and  caring  no  whit  for  the  method 
thereof,  Pat  sat  silently  in  the  window,  gazing  at 
him  with  tearless  eyes,  with  the  wonder  and  amaze- 
ment of  her  soul  writ  clear  on  her  face  for  all  to  see. 
And  I — I  lay  motionless  in  bed,  and  there  was  some- 
thing I  could  not  understand,  for  he  would  not  look 
at  me,  nor  yet  at  her,  but  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on 
the  fire,  while  he  talked  like  a  child  repeating  a 
lesson. 

At  last  it  was  over ;  their  last  questions  were  asked, 
and  slowly,  arm-in-arm,  they  left  the  room,  to  dwell 


THE  FATAL  SECONQ  113 

alone  upon  the  story  of  their  idolised  boy.  And  in  the 
room  the  silence  was  only  broken  by  the  crackling  of 
the  logs. 

How  long  we  sat  there  I  know  not,  with  the  fire- 
light flickering  on  the  stern  set  face  of  the  man  in  the 
chair.  He  seemed  unconscious  of  our  existence,  and 
we  two  dared  not  speak  to  him,  we  who  loved  him 
best,  for  there  was  something  we  could  not  under- 
stand. Suddenly  he  got  up,  and  held  out  his  arms 
to  Pat.  And  when  she  crept  into  them,  he  kissed  her, 
straining  her  close,  as  if  he  could  never  stop.  Then, 
without  a  word,  he  led  her  to  the  door,  and,  putting 
her  gently  through,  shut  it  behind  her.  Still  without 
a  word  he  came  back  to  the  chair,  and  turned  it  so 
that  the  firelight  no  longer  played  on  his  face.  And 
then  he  spoke. 

"I  have  a  story  to  tell  you,  Winkle,  which  I  venture 
to  think  will  entertain  you  for  a  time."  His  voice  was 
the  most  terrible  thing  I  have  ever  listened  to.  ... 
"Nearly  four  weeks  ago  the  battalion  was  in  the 
trenches  a  bit  south  of  Ypres.  It  was  bad  in  the  re- 
treat, as  you  know ;  it  was  bad  on  the  Aisne ;  but  they 
were  neither  of  them  in  the  same  county  as  the  doing 
we  had  up  north.  One  night — they'd  shelled  us  off 
and  on  for  three  days  and  three  nights — we  were 
driven  out  of  our  trenches.  The  regiment  on  our  right 
gave,  and  we  had  to  go  too.  The  next  morning  we 


H4  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

were  ordered  to  counter  attack,  and  get  back  the 
ground  we  had  lost.  It  was  the  attack  in  which  we 
lost  so  heavily." 

He  stopped  speaking  for  a  while,  and  I  did  not 
interrupt. 

"When  I  got  that  order  overnight  Jack  was  with 
me,  in  a  hole  that  passed  as  a  dugout.  At  the  moment 
everything  was  quiet;  the  Germans  were  patching  up 
their  new  position ;  only  a  maxim  spluttered  away  a  bit 
to  one  flank.  To  add  to  the  general  desolation  a  steady 
downpour  of  rain  drenched  us,  into  which  without 
cessation  the  German  flares  went  shooting  up.  I  think 
they  were  expecting  a  counter  attack  at  once.  .  .  ." 

Again  he  paused,  and  I  waited. 

"You  know  the  condition  one  gets  into  sometimes 
when  one  is  heavy  for  sleep.  We  had  it  during  the 
retreat  if  you  remember — a  sort  of  coma,  the  outcome 
of  utter  bodily  exhaustion.  One  used  to  go  on  walk- 
ing, and  all  the  while  one  was  asleep — or  practically 
so.  Sounds  came  to  us  dimly  as  from  a  great  dis- 
tance ;  they  made  no  impression  on  us — they  were  just 
a  jumbled  phantasmagoria  of  outside  matters,  which 
failed  to  reach  one's  brain,,  except  as  a  dim  dream.  I 
was  in  that  condition  on  the  night  I  am  speaking  of ;  I 
was  utterly  cooked — beat  to  the  world ;  I  was  finished 
for  the  time.  I've  told  you  this,  because  I  want  you 
to  understand  the  physical  condition  I  was  in." 


THE  FATAL  SECOND  115 

He  leaned  forward  and  stared  at  the  fire,  resting 
his  head  on  his  hands. 

"How  long  I'd  dozed  heavily  in  that  wet-sodden 
hole  I  don't  know,  but  after  a  while  above  the 
crackle  of  the  maxim,  separate  and  distinct  from  the 
soft  splash  of  the  rain,  and  the  hiss  of  the  flares,  and 
the  hundred  and  one  other  noises  that  came  dimly 
to  me  out  of  the  night,  I  heard  Jack's  voice — at  least  I 
think  it  was  Jack's  voice." 

Of  a  sudden  he  sat  up  in  the  chair,  and  rising  quickly 
he  came  and  leant  over  the  foot  of  the  bed. 

"Devil  take  it,"  he  cried  ^bitterly,  "I  know  it  was 
Jack's  voice — now.  I  knew  it  the  next  day  when  it 
was  too  late.  What  he  said  exactly  I  shall  never  know 
— at  the  time  it  made  no  impression  on  me ;  but  at  this 
moment,  almost  like  a  spirit  voice  in  my  brain,  I  can 
hear  him.  I  can  hear  him  asking  me  to  watch  him.  I 
can  hear  him  pleading — I  can  hear  his  dreadful  fear  of 
being  found  afraid.  As  a  whisper  from  a  great  dis- 
tance I  can  hear  one  short  sentence — 'Jerry,  my  God, 
Jerry — I'm  frightened!' 

"Winkle,  he  turned  to  me  in  his  weakness — that 
boy  who  had  never  failed  before,  that  boy  who  had 
reached  the  breaking-point — and  I  heeded  him  not. 
I  was  too  dead  beat ;  my  brain  couldn't  grasp  it." 

"But,  Jerry,"  I  cried,  "it  turned  out  all  right  the 


ii6  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

next  day ;  he  .  .  ."  The  words  died  away  on  my  lips 
as  I  met  the  look  in  his  eyes. 

"You'd  better  let  me  finish,"  he  interrupted  wearily. 
"Let  me  get  the  whole  hideous  tragedy  off  my  mind 
for  the  first  and  the  last  time.  Early  next  morning 
we  attacked.  In  the  dim  dirty  light  of  dawn  I  saw 
the  boy's  face  as  he  moved  off  to  his  platoon ;  and  even 
then  I  didn't  remember  those  halting  sentences  that 
had  come  to  me  out  of  the  night.  So  instead  of  order- 
ing him  to  the  rear  on  some  pretext  or  other  as  I  should 
have  done,  I  let  him  go  to  his  platoon. 

"As  we  went  across  the  ground  that  morning 
through  a  fire  like  nothing  I  had  ever  imagined,  a  man 
wavered  in  front  of  me.  I  felt  it  clean  through  me. 
I  knew  fear  had  come.  I  shouted  and  cheered — but  the 
wavering  was  spreading ;  I  knew  that  too.  So  I  shot 
him  through  the  heart  from  behind  at  point-blank 
range  as  I  had  trained  myself  to  do — in  that  eternity 
ago — before  the  war.  The  counter  attack  was  suc- 
cessful." 

"Great  Heavens,  Jerry !"  I  muttered,  "who  did  you 
shoot?"  though  I  knew  the  answer  already. 

"The  man  I  shot  was  Jack  Delawnay.  Whether 
at  the  time  I  was  actively  conscious  of  it,  I  cannot 
say.  Certainly  my  training  enabled  me  to  act  before 
any  glimmering  of  the  aftermath  came  into  my  mind. 
This  is  the  aftermath." 


THE  FATAL  SECOND  117 

I  shuddered  at  the  utter  hopelessness  of  his  tone, 
though  the  full  result  of  his  action  had  not  dawned  on 
me  yet ;  my  mind  was  dazed. 

"But  surely  Jack  was  no  coward,"  I  said  at  length. 

"He  was  not;  but  on  that  particular  morning  he 
gave  out.  He  had  reached  the  limit  of  his  endurance." 

"The  Colonel's  letter,"  I  reminded  him;  "it  praised 
the  lad." 

"Lies,"  he  answered  wearily,  "all  lies,  engineered 
by  me.  Not  because  I  am  ashamed  of  what  I  did, 
but  for  the  lad's  sake,  and  hers,  and  the  old  people. 
I  loved  the  boy,  as  you  know,  but  he  failed,  and  there 
was  no  other  way.  And  where  the  fiend  himself  is 
gloating  over  it  is  that  he  knows  it  was  the  only  time 
Jack  did  fail.  If  only  I  hadn't  been  so  beat  the  night 
before;  if  only  his  words  had  reached  my  brain  before 
it  was  too  late.  If  only  ...  I  think,"  he  added,  after 
a  pause,  "I  think  I  shall  go  mad.  Sometimes  I  wish 
I  could." 

"And  what  of  Pat?"  I  asked,  at  length  breaking  the 
silence. 

The  hands  grasping  the  bed  tightened,  and  grew 
white. 

"I  said  'Good-bye'  to  her  before  your  eyes,  ten 
minutes  ago.  I  shall  never  see  her  again." 

"But,  Great  Heavens,  Jerry!"  I  cried,  "you  can't 
give  her  up  like  that.  She  idolises  the  ground  you 


n8  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

walk  on,  she  worships  you,  and  she  need  never  know. 
You  were  only  doing  your  duty  after  all." 

"Stop!"  he  cried,  and  his  voice  was  a  command. 
"As  you  love  me,  old  friend,  don't  tempt  me.  For 
three  weeks  those  arguments  have  been  flooding  every- 
thing else  from  my  mind.  Do  you  remember  at  Hen- 
ley, when  she  said,  'He  might  have  answered  to  your 
voice?'  Winkle,  it's  true,  Jack  might  have.  And  I 
killed  him.  Just  think  if  I  married  her,  and  she  did 
find  out.  Her  brother's  murderer — in  her  eyes.  The 
man  who  has  wrecked  her  home,  and  broken  her  father 
and  mother.  It's  inconceivable,  it's  hideous.  Ah! 
don't  you  see  how  utterly  final  it  all  is?  She  may  have 
been  right;  and  if  she  was,  then  I,  who  loved  her  better 
than  the  world,  have  murdered  her  brother,  and  broken 
the  old  people's  hearts  for  the  sake  of  a  theory.  The 
fact  that  my  theory  has  been  put  into  practice,  at  the 
expense  of  everything  I  have  to  live  for,  is  full  of 
humour,  isn't  it?"  And  his  laugh  was  wild. 

"Steady,  Jerry,"  I  said  sternly.  "What  do  you  mean 
to  do?" 

"You'll  see,  old  man,  in  time,"  he  answered.  "First 
and  foremost,  get  back  to  the  regiment,  arm  or  no 
arm.  I  would  not  have  come  home,  but  I  had  to  see 
her  once  more." 

"You  talk  as  if  it  was  the  end."  I  looked  at  him 
squarely. 


THE  FATAL  SECOND  119 

"It  is,"  he  answered.    "It's  easy  out  there." 

"Your  mind  is  made  up?" 

"Absolutely."  He  gave  a  short  laugh.  "Good- 
bye, old  friend.  Ease  it  to  her  as  well  as  you  can. 
Say  I'm  unstrung  by  the  trenches,  anything  you  like; 
but  don't  let  her  guess  the  truth." 

For  a  long  minute  he  held  my  hand.  Then  he  turned 
away.  He  walked  to  the  mantelpiece,  and  there  was  a 
photograph  of  her  there.  For  a  long  time  he  looked 
at  it,  and  it  seemed  to  me  he  whispered  something.  A 
sudden  dimness  blinded  my  eyes,  and  when  I  looked 
again  he  had  gone — through  the  window  into  the 
night. 

I  did  not  see  Pat  until  I  left  Drayton  Hall  after 
that  ghastly  night,  save  only  once  or  twice  with  her 
mother  in  the  room. 

But  an  hour  before  I  left  she  came  to  me,  and  her 
face  was  that  of  a  woman  who  has  passed  through  the 
fires. 

"Tell  me,  Winkle,  shall  I  ever  see  him  again?  You 
know  what  I  mean." 

"You  will  never  see  him  again,  Pat,"  and  the  look 
in  her  eyes  made  me  choke. 

"Will  you  tell  me  what  it  was  he  told  you  before 
he  went  through  the  window?  You  see,  I  was  in  the 
hall  waiting  for  him,"  and  she  smiled  wearily. 


120  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

"I  can't,  Pat  dear;  I  promised  him,"  I  muttered. 
"But  it  was  nothing  disgraceful." 

"Disgraceful !"  she  cried  proudly.  "Jerry,  and  any- 
thing disgraceful.  Oh,  my  God!  Winkle  dear,"  and 
she  broke  down  utterly,  "do  you  remember  the  waltz 
they  were  playing  that  day — 'Destiny'  ?" 

And  then  I  went.  Whether  that  wonderful  woman's 
intuition  has  told  her  something  of  what  happened, 
I  know  not.  But  yesterday  morning  I  got  a  letter 
from  the  Colonel  saying  that  Jerry  had  chucked  his 
life  away,  saving  a  wounded  man.  And  this  morning 
she  will  have  seen  it  in  the  papers. 

God  help  you,  Pat,  my  dear. 


CHAPTER   V 
JIM  BRENT'S  v.c. 

IF  you  pass  through  the  Menin-Gate'  at  Ypres,  and 
walk  up  the  slight  rise  that  lies  on  the  other  side  of 
the  moat,  you  will  come  to  the  parting  of  the  ways. 
You  will  at  the  same  time  come  to  a  spot  of  unpre- 
possessing aspect,  whose  chief  claim  to  notoriety  lies 
in  its  shell-holes  and  broken-down  houses.  If  you 
keep  straight  on  you  will  in  time  come  to  the  little 
village  of  Potige;  if  you  turn  to  the  right  you  will 
eventually  arrive  at  Hooge.  In  either  case  you  will 
wish  you  hadn't. 

Before  the  war  these  two  roads — which  join  about 
two  hundred  yards  east  of  the  rampart  walls  of  Ypres 
— were  adorned  with  a  fair  number  of  houses.  They 
were  of  that  stucco  type  which  one  frequently  sees 
in  England  spreading  out  along  the  roads  that  lead 
to  a  largish  town.  Generally  there  is  one  of  unusually 
revolting  aspect  that  stands  proudly  by  itself  a  hun- 
dred yards  or  so  from  the  common  herd  and  enclosed 
in  a  stuccoesque  wall.  And  there  my  knowledge  of 
the  type  in  England  ends. 

121 


122  •  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

In  Belgium,  however,  my  acquaintance  with  this 
sort  of  abode  is  extensive.  In  taking  over  a  house 
in  Flanders  that  stands  unpleasantly  near  the  Hun, 
the  advertisement  that  there  are  three  sitting,  two 
bed,  h.  and  c.  laid  on,  with  excellent  onion  patch,  near 
railway  and  good  golf-links,  leaves  one  cold.  The 
end-all  and  be-all  of  a  house  is  its  cellar.  The  more 
gloomy,  and  dark,  and  generally  horrible  the  cellar, 
the  higher  that  house  ranks  socially,  and  the  more 
likely  are  you  to  find  in  it  a  general  consuming  his  last 
hamper  from  Fortnum  &  Mason  by  the  light  of  a 
tallow  dip.  And  this  applies  more  especially  to  the 
Hooge  road. 

Arrived  at  the  fork,  let  us  turn  right-handed  and 
proceed  along  the  deserted  road.  A  motor-car  is  not 
to  be  advised,  as  at  this  stage  of  the  promenade  one 
is  in  full  sight  of  the  German  trenches.  For  about 
two  or  three  hundred  yards  no  houses  screen  you,  and 
then  comes  a  row  of  the  stucco  residences  I  have  men- 
tioned. Also  at  this  point  the  road  bends  to  the  left. 
Here,  out  of  sight,  occasional  men  sun  themselves  in 
the  heavily-scented  air,  what  time  they  exchange  a 
little  playful  badinage  in  a  way  common  to  Thomas 
Atkins.  At  least,  that  is  what  happened  some  time 
ago;  now,  of  course,  things  may  have  changed  in  the 
garden  city. 

And   at  this  point  really   our   journey   is  ended, 


JIM  BRENT'S  V.C.  123 

though  for  interest  we  might  continue  for  another 
quarter  of  a  mile.  The  row  of  houses  stops  abruptly, 
and  away  in  front  stretches  a  long  straight  road.  A 
few  detached  mansions  of  sorts,  in  their  own  grounds, 
flank  it  on  each  side.  At  length  they  cease,  and  in 
front  lies  the  open  country.  The  poplar-lined  road 
disappears  out  of  sight  a  mile  ahead,  where  it  tops  a 
gentle  slope.  And  half  on  this  side  of  the  rise,  and 
half  on  the  other,  there  are  the  remnants  of  the  tit-bit 
of  the  whole  bloody  charnel-house  of  the  Ypres  salient 
— the  remnants  of  the  village  of  Hooge.  A  closer  ex- 
amination is  not  to  be  recommended.  The  place  where 
you  stand  is  known  in  the  vernacular  as  Hell  Fire 
Corner,  and  the  Hun — who  knows  the  range  of  that 
corner  to  the  fraction  of  an  inch — will  quite  possibly 
resent  your  presence  even  there.  And  shrapnel  gives 
a  nasty  wound. 

Let  us  return  and  seek  safety  in  a  cellar.  It  is  not 
what  one  would  call  a  good-looking  cellar ;  no  priceless 
prints  adorn  the  walls,  no  Turkey  carpet  receives  your 
jaded  feet.  In  one  corner  a  portable  gramophone  with 
several  records  much  the  worse  for  wear  reposes  on  an 
upturned  biscuit-box,  and  lying  on  the  floor,  with  due 
regard  to  space  economy,  are  three  or  four  of  those 
excellent  box-mattresses  which  form  the  all-in-all  of 
the  average  small  Belgian  house.  On  top  of  them  are 
laid  some  valises  and  blankets,  and  from  the  one  in 


124  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

the  corner  the  sweet  music  of  the  sleeper  strikes  softly 
on  the  ear.  It  is  the  senior  subaltern,  who  has  been 
rambling  all  the  preceding  night  in  Sanctuary  Wood — 
the  proud  authors  of  our  nomenclature  in  Flanders 
quite  rightly  possess  the  humour  necessary  for  the 
production  of  official  communiques. 

In  two  chairs,  smoking,  are  a  couple  of  officers. 
One  is  a  major  of  the  Royal  Engineers,  and  another, 
also  a  sapper,  belongs  to  the  gilded  staff.  The  cellar 
is  the  temporary  headquarters  of  a  field  company — • 
office,  mess,  and  bedroom  rolled  into  one. 

"I'm  devilish  short-handed  for  the  moment,  Bill." 
The  Major  thoughtfully  filled  his  pipe.  'That  last 
boy  I  got  a  week  ago — a  nice  boy  he  was,  too — was 
killed  in  Zouave  Wood  the  day  before  yesterday,  poor 
devil.  Seymour  was  wounded  three  days  ago,  and 
there's  only  Brent,  Johnson,  and  him" — he  indicated 

the  sleeper.  "Johnson  is  useless,  and  Brent "  He 

paused,  and  looked  full  at  the  Staff-captain.  "Do  you 
know  Brent  well,  by  any  chance?" 

"I  should  jolly  well  think  I  did.  Jim  Brent  is  one  of 
my  greatest  pals,  Major." 

"Then  perhaps  you  can  tell  me  something  I  very 
much  want  to  know.  I  have  knocked  about  the  place 
for  a  good  many  years,  and  I  have  rubbed  shoulders, 
officially  and  unofficially,  with  more  men  than  I  care 
to  remember.  As  a  result,  I  think  I  may  claim  a 


JIM  BRENT'S  V.C  125 

fair  knowledge  of  my  fellow-beings.  And  Brent- 
well,  he  rather  beats  me." 

He  paused  as  if  at  a  loss  for  words,  and  looked  in 
the  direction  of  the  sleeping  subaltern.  Reassured  by 
the  alarming  noise  proceeding  from  the  corner,  he 
seemed  to  make  up  his  mind. 

"Has  Brent  had  some  very  nasty  knock  lately — 
money,  or  a  woman,  or  something?" 

The  Staff-captain  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth, 
and  for  some  seconds  stared  at  the  floor.  Then  he 
asked  quietly,  "Why?  What  are  you  getting  at?" 

"This  is  why,  Bill.  Brent  is  one  of  the  most  capable 
officers  I  have  ever  had.  He's  a  man  whose  judg- 
ment, tact,  and  driving  power  are  perfectly  invaluable 
in  a  show  of  this  sort — so  invaluable,  in  fact" — he 
looked  straight  at  his  listener — "that  his  death  would 
be  a  very  real  loss  to  the  corps  and  the  Service.  He's 
one  of  those  we  can't  replace,  and — he's  going  all  out 
to  make  us  have  to." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  The  question  expressed 
no  surprise ;  the  speaker  seemed  merely  to  be  .demand- 
ing confirmation  of  what  he  already  knew. 

"Brent  is  deliberately  trying  to  get  killed.  There 
is  not  a  shadow  of  doubt  about  it  in  my  mind.  Do 
you  know  why  ?" 

The  Staff-officer  got  up  and  strolled  to  a  table  on 
which  were  lying  some  illustrated  weekly  papers. 


126  MEN,  WOMEN  AND!  GUNS 

"Have  you  last  week's  Tatlert"  He  turned  over  the 
leaves.  "Yes — here  it  is."  He  handed  the  newspaper 
to  the  Major.  "That  is  why." 

"A  charming  portrait  of  Lady  Kathleen  Goring, 
who  was  last  week  married  to  that  well-known  sports- 
man and  soldier  Sir  Richard  Goring.  She  was,  it  will 
be  remembered,  very  popular  in  London  society  as  the 
beautiful  Miss  Kathleen  Tubbs — the  daughter  of  Mr* 
and  Mrs.  Silas  P.  Tubbs,  of  Pittsburg,  Pa." 

The  Major  put  down  the  paper  and  looked  at  the 
Staff-captain ;  then  suddenly  he  rose  and  hurled  it  into 
the  corner.  "Oh,  damn  these  women,"  he  exploded. 

"Amen,"  murmured  the  other,  as,  with  a  loud  snort, 
the  sleeper  awoke. 

"Is  anything  th'  matter?"  he  murmured,  drowsily, 
only  to  relapse  at  once  into  unconsciousness. 

"Jim  was  practically  engaged  to  her;  and  then, 
three  months  ago,  without  a  word  of  explanation, 
she  gave  him  the  order  of  the  boot,  and  got  engaged 
to  Goring."  The  Staff-captain  spoke  savagely.  "A 
damn  rotten  woman,  Major,  and  Jim's  well  out  of  it, 
if  he  only  knew.  .  Goring' s  a  baronet,  which  is,  of 
course,  the  reason  why  this  excrescence  of  the  house 
of  Tubbs  chucked  Jim.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Dick 
Goring's  not  a  bad  fellow — he  deserves  a  better  fate. 
But  it  fairly  broke  Jim  up.  He's  not  the  sort  of 
fellow  wh6  falls  in  love  easily;  this  was  his  one  and 


JIM  BRENT'S  V.C.  127 

only  real  affair,  and  he  took  it  bad.  He  told  me  at  the 
time  that  he  never  intended  to  come  back  alive." 

"Damn  it  all!"  The  Major's  voice  was  irritable. 
"Why,  his  knowledge  of  the  lingo  alone  makes  him 
invaluable." 

"Frankly,  I've  been  expecting  to  hear  of  his  death 
every  day.  He's  not  the  type  that  says  a  thing  of 
that  sort  without  meaning  it." 

A  step  sounded  on  the  floor  above.  "Look  out,  here 
he  is.  You'll  stop  and  have  a  bit  of  lunch,  Bill  ?" 

As  he  spoke  the  light  in  the  doorway  was  blocked 
out,  and  a  man  came  uncertainly  down  the  stairs. 

"Confound  these  cellars.  One  can't  see  a  thing, 
coming  in  out  of  the  daylight.  Who's  that?  Halloa, 
Bill,  old  cock,  'ow's  yourself?" 

"Just  tottering,  Jim.    Where've  you  been?" 

"Wandered  down  to  Vlamertinghe  this  morning 
early  to  see  about  some  sandbags,  and  while  I  was 
there  I  met  that  flying  wallah  Petersen  in  the  R.N.A.S. 
Do  you  remember  him,  Major?  He  was  up  here  with 
an  armoured  car  in  May.  He  told  me  rather  an  inter- 
esting thing." 

"What's  that,  Jim?"  The  Major  was  attacking  a 
brawn  with  gusto.  "Sit  down,  Bill.  Whisky  and 
Perrier  in  that  box  over  there." 

"He  tells  me  the  Huns  have  got  six  guns  whose  size 
he  puts  at  about  9-inch;  guns,  mark  you,  not  howit- 


128  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

zers — mounted  on  railway  trucks  at  Tournai.  From 
there  they  can  be  rushed  by  either  branch  of  the  line — 
the  junction  is  just  west — to  wherever  they  are  re- 
quired." 

"My  dear  old  boy,"  laughed  Bill,  as  he  sat  down. 
"I  don't  know  your  friend  Petersen,  and  I  have  not 
the  slightest  hesitation  in  saying  that  he  is  in  all  proba- 
bility quite  right.  But  the  information  seems  to  be 
about  as  much  use  as  the  fact  that  it  is  cold  in  Lab- 
rador." 

"I  wonder,"  answered  Brent,  thoughtfully — "I 
wonder."  He  was  rummaging  through  a  pile  of  papers 
in  the  stationery  box. 

The  other  two  men  looked  at  one  another  signifi- 
cantly. "What  hare-brained  scheme  have  you  got  in 
your  mind  now,  Brent?"  asked  the  Major. 

Brent  came  slowly  across  the  cellar  and  sat  down 
with  a  sheet  of  paper  spread  out  on  his  knee.  For 
a  while  he  examined  it  in  silence,  comparing  it  with 
an  ordnance  map,  and  then  he  spoke.  "It's  brick, 
and  the  drop  is  sixty  feet,  according  to  this — with  the 
depth  of  the  water  fifteen." 

"And  the  answer  is  a  lemon.  What  on  earth  are 
you  talking  about,  Jim  ?" 

"The  railway  bridge  over  the  river  before  the  line 
forks." 

"Good  Lord!     My  good  fellow,"  cried  the  Major, 


JIM  BRENT'S  V.C.  129 

irritably,  "don't  be  absurd.  Are  you  proposing  to 
blow  it  up?"  His  tone  was  ponderously  sarcastic. 

"Not  exactly,"  answered  the  unperturbed  Brent, 
"but  something  of  the  sort — if  I  can  get  permission." 

The  two  men  laid  down  their  knives  and  stared  at 
him  solemnly. 

"You  are,  I  believe,  a  sapper  officer,"  commenced 
the  Major.  "May  I  ask  first  how  much  gun-cotton 
you  think  will  be  necessary  to  blow  up  a  railway  bridge 
which  gives  a  sixty-foot  drop  into  water ;  second,  how 
you  propose  to  get  it  there;  third,  how  you  propose 
to  get  yourself  there;  and  fourth,  why  do  you  talk 
such  rot?" 

Jim  Brent  laughed  and  helped  himself  to  whisky. 
"The  answer  to  the  first  question  is  unknown  at  pres- 
ent, but  inquiries  of  my  secretary  will  be  welcomed — 
probably  about  a  thousand  pounds.  The  answer  to  the 
second  question  is  that  I  don't.  The  answer  to  the 
third  is — somehow ;  and  for  the  fourth  question  I  must 
ask  for  notice." 

"What  the  devil  are  you  driving  at,  Jim?"  said  the 
Staff-captain,  puzzled.  "If  you  don't  get  the  stuff 
there,  how  the  deuce  are  you  going  to  blow  up  the 
bridge?" 

"You  may  take  it  from  me,  Bill,  that  I  may  be  mad, 
but  I  never  anticipated  marching  through  German 


130  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

Belgium  with  a  party  of  sappers  and  a  G.S.  wagon  full 
of  gun-cotton.  Oh,  no — it's  a  one-man  show/' 

"But,"  ejaculated  the  Major,  "how  the " 

"Have  you  ever  thought,  sir,"  interrupted  Brent, 
"what  would  be  the  result  if,  as  a  heavy  train  was  pass- 
ing over  a  bridge,  you  cut  one  rail  just  in  front  of  the 
engine  ?" 

"But "  the  Major  again  started  to  speak,  and 

was  again  cut  short. 

"The  outside  rail,"  continued  Brent,  "so  that  the 
tendency  would  be  for  the  engine  to  go  towards  the 
parapet  wall.  And  no  iron  girder  to  hold  it  up — • 
merely  a  little  brick  wall" — he  again  referred  to  the 
paper  on  his  knee — "three  feet  high  and  three  bricks 
thick.  No  nasty  parties  of  men  carrying  slabs  of  gun- 
cotton;  just  yourself — with  one  slab  of  gun-cotton  in 
your  pocket  and  one  primer  and  one  detonator — that 
and  the  psychological  moment.  Luck,  of  course,  but 
when  we  dispense  with  the  working  party  we  lift  it 
from  the  utterly  impossible  into  the  realm  of  the  re- 
motely possible.  The  odds  are  against  success,  I  know ; 
but "  He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"But  how  do  you  propose  to  get  there,  my  dear 
chap?"  asked  the  Major,  peevishly.  "The  Germans 
have  a  rooted  objection  to  English  officers  walking 
about  behind  their  lines." 

"Yes,  but  they  don't  mind  a  Belgian  peasant,  do 


JIM  BRENT'S  V.C.  131 

they?  Dash  it,  they've  played  the  game  on  us  scores 
of  times,  Major — not  perhaps  the  bridge  idea,  but 
espionage  by  men  disguised  behind  our  lines.  I  only 
propose  doing  the  same,  and  perhaps  going  one 
better." 

"You  haven't  one  chance  in  a  hundred  of  getting 
through  alive."  The  Major  viciously  stabbed  a 
tongue. 

"That  is — er — beside  the  point,"  answered  Brent, 
shortly. 

"But  how  could  you  get  through  their  lines  to  start 
with?"  queried  Bill. 

"There  are  ways,  dearie,  there  are  ways.  Petersen 
is  a  man  of  much  resource." 

"Of  course,  the  whole  idea  is  absolutely  ridiculous." 
The  Major  snorted.  "Once  and  for  all,  Brent,  I  won't 
hear  of  it.  We're  far  too  short  of  fellows  as  it  is." 

And  for  a  space  the  subject  languished,  though 
there  was  a  look  on  Jim  Brent's  face  which  showed  it 
was  only  for  a  space. 

Now  when  a  man  of  the  type  of  Brent  takes  it  badly 
over  a  woman,  there  is  a  strong  probability  of  very 
considerable  trouble  at  any  time.  When,  in  addition 
to  that,  it  occurs  in  the  middle  of  the  bloodiest  war  of 
history,  the  probability  becomes  a  certainty.  That  he 
should  quite  fail  to  see  just  what  manner  of  woman 


I32  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

the  present  Lady  Goring  was,  was  merely  in  the  nature 
of  the  animal.  He  was — as  far  as  women  were  con- 
cerned— of  the  genus  fool.  To  him  "the  rag,  and  the 
bone,  and  the  hank  of  hair"  could  never  be  anything 
but  perfect.  It  is  as  well  that  there  are  men  like  that. 

All  of  which  his  major — who  was  a  man  of  no  little 
understanding — knew  quite  well.  And  the  knowledge 
increased  his  irritation,  for  he  realised  the  futility  of 
trying  to  adjust  things.  That  adjusting  business  is 
ticklish  work  even  between  two  close  pals;  but  when 
the  would-be  adjuster  is  very  little  more  than  a  mere 
acquaintance,  the  chances  of  success  might  be  put  in  a 
small-sized  pill-box.  To  feel  morally  certain  that  your 
best  officer  is  trying  his  hardest  to  get  himself  killed, 
and  to  be  unable  to  prevent  it,  is  an  annoying  state 
of  affairs.  Small  wonder,  then,  that  at  intervals 
throughout  the  days  that  followed  did  the  Major 
reiterate  with  solemnity  and  emphasis  his  remark  to 
the  Staff-captain  anent  women.  It  eased  his  feelings, 
if  it  did  nothing  else. 

The  wild  scheme  Brent  had  half  suggested  did  not 
trouble  him  greatly.  He  regarded  it  merely  as  a  tem- 
porary aberration  of  the  brain.  In  the  South  African 
war  small  parties  of  mounted  sappers  and  cavalry  had 
undoubtedly  ridden  far  into  hostile  country,  and,  get- 
ting behind  the  enemy,  had  blown  up  bridges,  and 
generally  damaged  their  lines  of  communication.  But 


JIM  BRENT'S  V.C.  133 

in  the  South  African  war  a  line  of  trenches  did  not 
stretch  from  sea  to  sea. 

And  so,  seated  one  evening  at  the  door  of  his  com- 
modious residence  talking  things  over  with  his  colonel, 
he  did  not  lay  any  great  stress  on  the  bridge  idea. 
Brent  had  not  referred  to  it  again;  and  in  the  cold  light 
of  reason  it  seemed  too  foolish  to  mention. 

"Of  course,"  remarked  the  C.R.E.,  "he's  bound  to 
take  it  soon.  No  man  can  go  on  running  the  fool  risks 
you  say  he  does  without  stopping  one.  It's  a  pity; 
but,  if  he  won't  see  by  himself  that  he's  a  fool,  I  don't 
see  what  we  can  do  to  make  it  clear.  If  only  that  con- 
founded girl "  He  grunted  and  got  up  to  go. 

"Halloa!  What  the  devil  is  this  fellow  doing?" 

Shambling  down  the  road  towards  them  was  a  par- 
ticularly decrepit  and  filthy  specimen  of  the  Belgian 
labourer.  In  normal  circumstances,  and  in  any  other 
place,  his  appearance  would  have  called  for  no  especial 
comment ;  the  brand  is  not  a  rare  one.  But  for  many 
months  the  salient  of  Ypres  had  been  cleared  of  its 
civilian  population;  and  this  sudden  appearance  was 
not  likely  to  pass  unnoticed. 

"Venez,  ici,  monsieur,  tout  de  suite."  At  the  Ma- 
jor's words  the  old  man  stopped,  and  paused  in  hesi- 
tation; then  he  shuffled  towards  the  two  men. 

"Will  you  talk  to  him,  Colonel?"  The  Major 
glanced  at  his  senior  officer. 


134  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

"Er — I  think  not ;  my — er — French,  don't  you  know 
— er — not  what  it  was."  The  worthy  officer  retired  in 
good  order,  only  to  be  overwhelmed  by  a  perfect  deluge 
of  words  from  the  Belgian. 

"What's  he  say?"  he  queried,  peevishly.  "That 
damn  Flemish  sounds  like  a  dog  fight." 

"Parlez-vous  Frangais,  monsieur?"  The  Major  at- 
tempted to  stem  the  tide  of  the  old  man's  verbosity, 
but  he  evidently  had  a  grievance,  and  a  Belgian  with  a 
grievance  is  not  a  thing  to  be  regarded  with  a  light 
heart. 

"Thank  heavens,  here's  the  interpreter!"  The 
Colonel  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief.  "Ask  this  man  what 
he's  doing  here,  please." 

For  a  space  the  distant  rattle  of  a  machine-gun  was 
drowned,  and  then  the  interpreter  turned  to  the 
officers. 

"  'E  say,  sare,  that  'e  has  ten  thousand  franc  behind 
the  German  line,  buried  in  a  'ole,  and  'e  wants  to 
know  vat  'e  shall  do." 

"Do,"  laughed  the  Major.  "What  does  he  imagine 
he's  likely  to  do?  Go  and  dig  it  up?  Tell  him  that 
he's  got  no  business  here  at  all." 

Again  the  interpreter  spoke. 

"Shall  I  take  'im  to  Yper  and  'and  'im  to  the  gen- 
darmes, sare?" 


JIM  BRENT'S  V.C.  135 

"Not  a  bad  idea,"   said  the  Colonel,   "and  have 


him- 


What  further  order  he  was  going  to  give  is  im- 
material, for  at  that  moment  he  looked  at  the  Belgian, 
and  from  that  villainous  old  ruffian  he  received  the 
most  obvious  and  unmistakable  wink. 

"Er — thank  you,  interpreter;  I  will  send  him  later 
under  a  guard." 

The  interpreter  saluted  and  retired,  the  Major  looked 
surprised,  the  Colonel  regarded  the  Belgian  with  an 
amazed  frown.  Then  suddenly  the  old  villain  spoke. 

"Thank  you,  Colonel.  Those  Ypres  gendarmes 
would  have  been  a  nuisance." 

"Great  Scot!"  gasped  the  Major.    "What  the " 

"What  the  devil  is  the  meaning  of  this  masquerade, 
sir?"  The  Colonel  was  distinctly  angry. 

"I  wanted  to  see  if  I'd  pass  muster  as  a  Belgian, 
sir.  The  interpreter  was  an  invaluable  proof." 

"You  run  a  deuced  good  chance  of  being  shot, 
Brent,  in  that  rig.  Anyway,  I  wish  for  an  explana- 
tion as  to  why  you're  walking  about  in  that  get-up. 
Haven't  you  enough  work  to  do?" 

"Shall  we  go  inside,  sir?  I've  got  a  favour  to  ask 
you." 

We  are  not  very  much  concerned  with  the  conver- 
sation that  took  place  downstairs  in  that  same  cellar, 


136  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

when  two  senior  officers  of  the  corps  of  Royal  Engi- 
neers listened  for  nearly  an  hour  to  an  apparently 
disreputable  old  farmer.  It  might  have  been  inter- 
esting to  note  how  the  sceptical  grunts  of  those  two 
officers  gradually  gave  place  to  silence,  and  at  length 
to  a  profound,  breathless  interest,  as  they  pored  over 
maps  and  plans.  And  the  maps  were  all  of  that 
country  which  lies  behind  the  German  trenches. 

But  at  the  end  the  old  farmer  straightened  himself 
smartly. 

"That  is  the  rough  outline  of  my  plan,  sir.  I  think 
I  can  claim  that  I  have  reduced  the  risk  of  not  get- 
ting to  my  objective  to  a  minimum.  When  I  get  there 
»I  am  sure  that  my  knowledge  of  the  patois  renders 
the  chance  of  detection  small.  As  for  the  actual  de- 
molition itself,  an  enormous  amount  will  depend  on 
luck;  but  I  can  afford  to  wait.  I  shall  have  to  be 
guided  by  local  conditions.  And  so  I  ask  you  to  let 
me  go.  It's  a  long  odds  chance,  but  if  it  comes  off  it's 
worth  it." 

"And  if  it  does,  what  then?  What  about  you?" 
The  Colonel's  eyes  and  Jim  Brent's  met. 

"I  shall  have  paid  for  my  keep,  Colonel,  at  any 
rate." 

Everything  was  very  silent  in  the  cellar ;  outside  on 
the  road  a  man  was  singing. 


JIM  BRENT'S  V.C.  137 

"In  other  words,  Jim,  you're  asking  me  to  allow  you 
to  commit  suicide. " 

He  cleared  his  throat;  his  voice  seemed  a  little 
husky. 

"Good  Lord!  sir — it's  not  as  bad  as  that.  Call  it  a 
forlorn  hope,  if  you  like,  but  ..."  The  eyes  of  the 
two  men  met,  and  Brent  fell  silent. 

"Gad,  my  lad,  you're  a  fool,  but  you're  a  brave  fool ! 
For  Heaven's  sake,  give  me  a  drink." 

"I  may  go,  Colonel?" 

"Yes,  you  may  go — as  far,  that  is,  as  I  am  con- 
cerned. There  is  the  General  Staff  to  get  round  first." 

But  though  the  Colonel's  voice  was  gruff,  he  seemed 
to  have  some  difficulty  in  finding  his  glass. 

As  far  as  is  possible  in  human  nature,  Jim  Brent, 
at  the  period  when  he  gained  his  V.C.  in  a  manner 
which  made  him  the  hero  of  the  hour — one  might  al- 
most say  of  the  war — was,  I  believe,  without  fear. 
The  blow  he  had  received  at  the  hands  of  the  girl 
who  meant  all  the  world  to  him  had  rendered  him  ut- 
terly callous  of  his  life.  And  it  was  no  transitory 
feeling:  the  mood  of  an  hour  or  a  week.  It  was 
deeper  than  the  ordinary  misery  of  a  man  who  has 
taken  the  knock  from  a  woman,  deeper  and  much  less 
ostentatious.  He  seemed  to  view  life  with  a  con- 
temptuous toleration  that  in  any  other  man  would  have 
been  the  merest  affectation.  But  it  was  not  evinced 


138  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

by  his  words;  it  was  shown,  as  his  Major  had  said, 
by  his  deeds — deeds  that  could  not  be  called  bravado 
because  he  never  advertised  them.  He  was  simply 
gambling  with  death,  with  a  cool  hand  and  a  steady 
eye,  and  sublimely  indifferent  to  whether  he  won  or 
lost  Up  to  the  time  when  he  played  his  last  great 
game  he  had  borne  a  charmed  life.  According  to 
the  book  of  the  words,  he  should  have  been  killed  a 
score  of  times,  and  he  told  me  himself  only  last  week 
that  he  went  into  this  final  gamble  with  a  taunt  on 
his  lips  and  contempt  in  his  heart.  Knowing  him  as 
I  do,  I  believe  it.  I  can  almost  hear  him  saying  to  his 
grim  opponent,  "Dash  it  all!  I've  won  every  time; 
for  Heaven's  sake  do  something  to  justify  your  repu- 
tation." 

But — he  didn't;  Jim  won  again.  And  when  he 
landed  in  England  from  a  Dutch  tramp,  having  car- 
ried out  the  maddest  and  most  hazardous  exploit  of 
the  war  unscathed,  he  slipped  up  on  a  piece  of  orange- 
peel  and  broke  his  right  leg  in  two  places,  which  made 
him  laugh  so  immoderately  when  the  contrast  struck 
him  that  it  cured  him — not  his  leg,  but  his  mind.  How- 
ever, all  in  due  course. 

The  first  part  of  the  story  I  heard  from  Petersen, 
of  the  Naval  Air  Service.  I  ran  into  him  by  accident 


JIM  BRENT'S  V.C.  139 

in  a  grocer's  shop  in  Hazebrpuck — buying  stuff  for 
the  mess, 

"What  news  of  Jim?"  he  cried,  the  instant  he  saw 
me. 

"Very  sketchy,"  I  answered.  "He's  the  worst  let- 
ter-writer in  the  world.  You  know  he  trod  on  a  bit 
of  orange-peel  and  broke  his  leg  when  he  got  back  to 
England." 

"He  would."  Petersen  smiled.  "That's  just  the 
sort  of  thing  Jim  would  do.  Men  like  him  usually  die 
of  mumps,  or  the  effects  of  a  bad  oyster." 

"Quite  so,"  I  murmured,  catching  him  gently  by 
the  arm.  "And  now  come  to  the  pub.  over  the  way 
and  tell  me  all  about  it.  The  beer  there  is  of  a  less 
vile  brand  than  usual." 

"But  I  can't  tell  you  anything,  my  dear  chap,  that 
you  don't  know  already!"  he  expostulated.  "I  am 
quite  prepared  to  gargle  with  you,  but— 

"Deux  bieres,  ma'm'selle,  s'il  vous  plait."  I  piloted 
Petersen  firmly  to  a  little  table.  "Tell  me  all,  my  son !" 
I  cried.  "For  the  purposes  of  this  meeting  I  know 
nix,  and  you  as  part  hero  in  the  affair  have  got  to  get 
it  off  your  chest." 

He  laughed,  and  lit  a  cigarette.  "Not  much  of  the 
heroic  in  my  part  of  the  stunt,  I  assure  you.  As  you 
know,  the  show  started  from  Dunkirk,  where  in  due 
course  Jim  arrived,  armed  with  credentials  extracted 


140  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

only  after  great  persuasion  from  sceptical  officers  of 
high  rank.  How  he  ever  got  there  at  all  has  always 
been  a  wonder  to  me :  his  Colonel  was  the  least  of  his 
difficulties  in  that  line.  But  Jim  takes  a  bit  of  stop- 
ping. 

"My  part  of  the  show  was  to  transport  that  scat- 
ter-brained idiot  over  the  trenches  and  drop  him  be- 
hind the  German  lines.  His  idea  was  novel,  I  must 
admit,  though  at  the  time  I  thought  he  was  mad,  and 
for  that  matter  I  still  think  he's  mad.  Only  a  mad- 
man could  have  thought  of  it,  only  Jim  Brent  could 
have  done  it  and  not  been  killed. 

"From  a  height  of  three  thousand  feet,  in  the  middle 
of  the  night,  he  proposed  to  bid  me  and  the  plane  a 
tender  farewell  and  descend  to  terra  firma  by  means 
of  a  parachute." 

"Great  Scot,"  I  murmured.     "Some  idea." 

"As  you  say — some  idea.  The  thing  was  to  choose 
a  suitable  night.  As  Jim  said,  'the  slow  descent  of 
a  disreputable  Belgian  peasant  like  an  angel  out  of 
the  skies  will  cause  a  flutter  of  excitement  in  the  ten- 
der heart  of  the  Hun  if  it  is  perceived.  Therefore,  it 
must  be  a  dark  and  overcast  night/ 

"At  last,  after  a  week,  we  got  an  ideal  one.  Jim 
arrayed  himself  in  his  togs,  took  his  basket  on  his  arm 
— you  know  he'd  hidden  the  gun-cotton  in  a  cheese — • 
and  we  went  round  to  the  machine.  By  Jove!  that 


JIM  BRENT'S  V.C.  141 

chap's  a  marvel.  Think  of  it,  man."  Petersen's  face 
was  full  of  enthusiastic  admiration.  "He'd  never  even 
been  up  in  an  aeroplane  before,  and  yet  the  first  time 
he  does,  it  is  with  the  full  intention  of  trusting  him- 
self to  an  infernal  parachute,  a  thing  the  thought  of 
which  gives  me  cold  feet;  moreover,  of  doing  it  in 
the  dark  from  a  height  of  three  thousand  odd  feet 
behind  the  German  lines  with  his  pockets  full  of  de- 
tonators and  other  abominations,  and  his  cheese  full 
of  gun-cotton.  Lord !  he's  a  marvel.  And  I  give  you 
my  word  that  of  the  two  of  us — though  I've  flown  for 
over  two  years — I  was  the  shaky  one.  He  was  abso- 
lutely cool ;  not  the  coolness  of  a  man  who  is  keeping 
himself  under  control,  but  just  the  normal  coolness 
of  a  man  who  is  doing  his  everyday  job." 

Petersen  finished  his  beer  at  a  gulp,  and  we  encored 
the  dose. 

"Well,  we  got  off  about  two.  We  were  not  aiming 
at  any  specific  spot,  but  I  was  going  to  go  due  east  for 
three-quarters  of  an  hour,  which  I  estimated  should 
bring  us  somewhere  over  Courtrai.  Then  he  was  go- 
ing to  drop  off,  and  I  was  coming  back.  The  time  was 
chosen  so  that  I  should  be  able  to  land  again  at  Dun- 
kirk about  dawn. 

"I  can't  tell  you  much  more.  We  escaped  detection 
going  over  the  lines,  and  about  ten  minutes  to  three,  at 
a  height  of  three  thousand  five  hundred,  old  Jim  tapped 


'142  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

me  on  the  shoulder.  He  understood  exactly  what  to 
do — as  far  as  we  could  tell  him:  for  the  parachute  is 
still  almost  in  its  infancy. 

"As  he  had  remarked  to  our  wing  commander  be- 
fore we  started :  'A  most  valuable  experiment,  sir ;  I 
will  report  on  how  it  works  in  due  course/ 

"We  shook  hands.  I  could  see  him  smiling  through 
the  darkness ;  and  then,  with  his  basket  under  his  arm, 
that  filthy  old  Belgian  farmer  launched  himself  into 
space. 

"I  saw  him  for  a  second  falling  like  a  stone,  and 
then  the  parachute  seemed  to  open  out  all  right.  But 
of  course  I  couldn't  tell  in  the  dark;  and  just  after- 
wards I  struck  an  air-pocket,  and  had  a  bit  of  trouble 
with  the  bus.  After  that  I  turned  round  and  went 
home  again.  I'm  looking  forward  to  seeing  the  old 
boy  and  hearing  what  occurred." 

And  that  is  the  unvarnished  account  of  the  first  part 
of  Jim's  last  game  with  fate.  Incidentally,  it's  the 
sort  of  thing  that  hardly  requires  any  varnishing. 

The  rest  of  the  yarn  I  heard  later  from  Brent  him- 
self, when  I  went  round  to  see  him  in  hospital,  while 
I  was  back  on  leave. 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  lady,  dear,"  he  said  to  the  sis- 
ter as  I  arrived,  "don't  let  anyone  else  in.  Say  I've 
had  a  relapse  and  am  biting  the  bed-clothes.  This  un- 


JIM  BRENT'S  V.C.  143 

pleasant-looking  man  is  a  great  pal  of  mine,  and  I 
would  commune  with  him  awhile." 

"It's  appalling,  old  boy,"  he  said  to  me  as  she  went 
out  of  the  room,  "how  they  cluster.  Men  of  dreadful 
visage;  women  who  gave  me  my  first  bath;  unprin- 
cipled journalists — all  of  them  come  and  talk  hot  air 
until  I  get  rid  of  them  by  swooning.  My  young  sister 
brought  thirty-four  school  friends  round  last  Tuesday ! 
Of  course,  my  swoon  is  entirely  artificial ;  but  the  sister 
is  an  understanding  soul,  and  shoos  them  away."  He 
lit  a  cigarette. 

"I  saw  Petersen  the  other  day  in  Hazebrouck,"  I 
told  him  as  I  sat  down  by  the  bed.  "He  wants  to 
come  round  and  see  you  as  soon  as  he  can  get  home." 

"Good  old  Petersen.  I'd  never  have  brought  it  off 
without  him." 

"What  happened,  Jim?"  I  asked.  "I've  got  up  to 
the  moment  when  you  left  his  bus,  with  your  old  para- 
chute, and  disappeared  into  space.  And  of  course 
I've  seen  the  official  announcement  of  the  guns  being 
seen  in  the  river,  as  reported  by  that  R.F.C.  man.  But 
there  is  a  gap  of  about  three  weeks;  and  I  notice  you 
have  not  been  over-communicative  to  the  half -penny 
press." 

"My  dear  old  man,"  he  answered,  seriously,  "there 
was  nothing  to  be  communicative  about.  Thinking  it 
over  now,  I  am  astounded  how  simple  the  whole  thing 


144  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

was.  It  was  as  easy  as  falling  off  a  log.  I  fell  like 
a  stone  for  two  or  three  seconds,  because  the  blessed 
umbrella  wouldn't  open.  Then  I  slowed  up  and  floated 
gently  downwards.  It  was  a  most  fascinating  sensa- 
tion. I  heard  old  Peter  sen  crashing  about  just  above 
me;  and  in  the  distance  a  search-light  was  moving 
backwards  and  forwards  across  the  sky,  evidently  look- 
ing for  him.  I  should  say  it  took  me  about  five  min- 
utes to  come  down;  and  of  course  all  the  way  down 
I  was  wondering  where  the  devil  I  was  going  to  land. 
The  country  below  me  was  black  as  pitch :  not  a  light 
to  be  seen — not  a  camp-fire — nothing.  As  the  two 
things  I  wanted  most  to  avoid  were  church  steeples 
and  the  temporary  abode  of  any  large  number  of  Huns, 
everything  looked  very  favourable.  To  be  suspended 
by  one's  trousers  from  a  weathercock  in  the  cold,  grey 
light  of  dawn  seemed  a  sorry  ending  to  the  show;  and 
to  land  from  the  skies  on  a  general's  stomach  requires 
explanation." 

He  smiled  reminiscently.  "I'm  not  likely  to  forget 
that  descent,  Petersen's  engine  getting  fainter  and 
fainter  in  the  distance,  the  first  pale  streaks  of  light 
beginning  to  show  in  the  east,  and  away  on  a  road 
to  the  south  the  headlamps  of  a  car  moving  swiftly 
along.  Then  the  humour  of  the  show  struck  me.  Me, 
in  my  most  picturesque  disguise,  odoriferous  as  a  fam- 
ily of  ferrets  in  my  borrowed  garments,  descending 


JIM  BRENT'S  V.C.  145 

gently  on  to  the  Hun  like  the  fairy  god-mother  in  a 
pantomime.  So  I  laughed,  and — wished  I  hadn't.  My 
knees  hit  my  jaw  with  a  crack,  and  I  very  nearly  bit 
my  tongue  in  two.  Cheeses  all  over  the  place,  and 
there  I  was  enveloped  in  the  folds  of  the  collapsing 
parachute.  Funny,  but  for  a  moment  I  couldn't  think 
what  had  happened.  I  suppose  I  was  a  bit  dizzy  from 
the  shock,  and  it  never  occurred  to  me  that  I'd  reached 
the  ground,  which,  not  being  able  to  see  in  the  dark,  I 
hadn't  known  was  so  close.  Otherwise  I  could  have 
landed  much  lighter.  Yes,  it's  a  great  machine  that 
parachute."  He  paused  to  reach  for  his  pipe. 

"Where  did  you  land?"  I  asked. 

"In  the  middle  of  a  ploughed  field.  Couldn't  have 
been  a  better  place  if  I'd  chosen  it.  A  wood  or  a  river 
would  have  been  deuced  awkward.  Yes,  there's  no 
doubt  about  it,  old  man,  my  luck  was  in  from  the  very 
start.  I  removed  myself  from  the  folds,  picked  up 
my  cheeses,  found  a  convenient  ditch  alongside  to  hide 
the  umbrella  in,  and  then  sat  tight  waiting  for  dawn. 

"I  happen  to  know  that  part  of  Belgium  pretty  well, 
and  when  it  got  light  I  took  my  bearings.  Petersen 
had  borne  a  little  south  of  what  we  intended,  which 
was  all  to  the  good — it  gave  me  less  walking;  but  it 
was  just  as  well  I  found  a  sign-post  almost  at  once, 
as  I  had  no  map,  of  course — far  too  dangerous;  and 
I  wasn't  very  clear  on  names  of  villages,  though  I'd 


146  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

memorized  the  map  before  leaving.  I  found  I  had 
landed  somewhere  south  of  Courtrai,  and  was  about 
twelve  kilometres  due  north  of  Tournai. 

"And  it  was  just  as  I'd  decided  that  little  fact  that 
I  met  a  horrible  Hun,  a  large  and  forbidding-looking 
man.  Now,  the  one  thing  on  which  I'd  been  chancing 
my  arm  was  the  freedom  allowed  to  the  Belgians  be- 
hind the  German  lines,  and  luck  again  stepped  in. 

"Beyond  grunting  'Guten  Morgen'  he  betrayed  no 
interest  in  me  whatever.  It  was  the  same  all  along.  I 
shambled  past  Uhlans,  and  officers  and  generals  in 
motor-cars — Huns  of  all  breeds  and  all  varieties,  and 
no  one  even  noticed  me.  And  after  all,  why  on  earth 
should  they? 

"About  midday  I  came  to  Tournai ;  and  here  again 
I  was  trusting  to  luck.  I'd  stopped  there  three  years 
ago  at  a  small  estaminet  near  the  station  kept  by  the 
widow  Demassiet.  Now  this  old  lady  was,  I  knew, 
thoroughly  French  in  sympathies;  and  I  hoped  that, 
in  case  of  necessity,  she  would  pass  me  off  as  her 
brother  from  Ghent,  who  was  staying  with  her  for  a 
while.  Some  retreat  of  this  sort  was,  of  course,  essen- 
tial. A  homeless  vagabond  would  be  bound  to  excite 
suspicion. 

"Dear  old  woman — she  was  splendid.  After  the 
war  I  shall  search  her  out,  and  present  her  with  an 
annuity,  or  a  belle  vache,  or  something  dear  to  the 


JIM  BRENTS  V.C.  14? 

Belgian  heart.  She  never  even  hesitated.  From  that 
night  I  was  her  brother,  though  she  knew  it  meant 
her  death  as  well  as  mine  if  I  was  discovered. 

"  'Ah,  monsieur,'  she  said,  when  I  pointed  this  out 
to  her,  'it  is  in  the  hands  of  le  bon  Dieu.  At  the  most 
I  have  another  five  years,  and  these  Allemands — pah !' 
She  spat  with  great  accuracy. 

"She  was  good,  was  the  old  veuve  Demassiet." 

Jim  puffed  steadily  at  his  pipe  in  silence  for  a  few 
moments. 

"I  soon  found  out  that  the  Germans  frequented  the 
estaminet;  and,  what  was  more  to  the  point — luck 
again,  mark  you — that  the  gunners  who  ran  the  bat- 
tery I  was  out  after  almost  lived  there.  When  the  bat- 
tery was  at  Tournai  they  had  mighty  little  to  do,  and 
they  did  it,  with  some  skill,  round  the  beer  in  her  big 
room. 

"I  suppose  you  know  what  my  plan  was.  The  next 
time  that  battery  left  Tournai  I  proposed  to  cut  one  of 
the  metals  on  the  bridge  over  the  River  Scheldt,  just 
in  front  of  the  engine,  so  close  that  the  driver  couldn't 
stop,  and  so  derail  the  locomotive.  I  calculated  that  if 
I  cut  the  outside  rail — the  one  nearest  the  parapet  wall 
— the  flange  on  the  inner  wheel  would  prevent  the  en- 
gine turning  inwards.  That  would  merely  cause  de- 
lay, but  very  possibly  no  more.  I  hoped,  on  the  con- 
trary, to  turn  it  outwards  towards  the  wall,  through 


148  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

which  it  would  crash,  dragging  after  it  with  any  luck 
the  whole  train  of  guns. 

"That  being  the  general  idea,  so  to  speak,  I  wan- 
dered off  one  day  to  see  the  bridge.  As  I  expected,  it 
was  guarded,  but  by  somewhat  indifferent-looking 
Huns — evidently  only  lines  of  communication  troops. 
For  all  that,  I  hadn't  an  idea  how  I  was  going  to  do  it. 
Still,  luck,  always  luck;  the  more  you  buffet  her  the 
better  she  treats  you. 

"One  week  after  I  got  there  I  heard  the  battery  was 
going  out :  aiid  they  were  going  out  that  night.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  that  hadn't  occurred  to  me  before — the 
fact  of  them  moving  by  night,  but  it  suited  me  down 
to  the  ground.  It  appeared  they  were  timed  to  leave 
at  midnight,  which  meant  they'd  cross  the  bridge  about 
a  quarter  or  half  past.  And  so  at  nine  that  evening 
I  pushed  gently  off  and  wandered  bridgewards. 

"Then  the  fun  began.  I  was  challenged,  and,  hav- 
ing answered  thickly,  I  pretended  to  be  drunk.  The 
sentry,  poor  devil,  wasn't  a  bad  fellow,  and  I  had  some 
cold  sausage  and  beer.  And  very  soon  a  gurgling  noise 
.pronounced  the  fact  that  he  found  my  beer  good. 

"It  was  then  I  hit  him  on  the  base  of  his  skull  with 
a  bit  of  gas-pipe.  That  sentry  will  never  drink  beer 
again."  Brent  frowned.  "A  nasty  blow,  a  dirty  blow, 
but  a  necessary  blow."  He  shrugged  his  shoulders 
and  then  went  on. 


JIM  BRENT'S  V.C.  149 

"I  took  off  his  top-coat  and  put  it  on.  I  put  on  his 
hat  and  took  his  rifle  and  rolled  him  down  the  em- 
bankment into  a  bush.  Then  I  resumed  his  beat.  Dis- 
cipline was  a  bit  lax  on  that  bridge,  I'm  glad  to  say; 
unless  you  pulled  your  relief  out  of  bed  no  one  else 
was  likely  to  do  it  for  you.  As  you  may  guess,  I  did 
not  do  much  pulling. 

"I  was  using  two  slabs  of  gun-cotton  to  make  sure — 
firing  them  electrically.  I  had  two  dry-cells  and  two 
coils  of  fine  wire  for  the  leads.  The  cells  would  fire 
a  No.  13  Detonator  through  thirty  yards  of  those  leads 
— and  that  thirty  yards  just  enabled  me  to  stand  clear 
of  the  bridge.  It  took  me  twenty  minutes  to  fix  it  up, 
and  then  I  had  to  wait. 

"By  gad,  old  boy,  you've  called  me  a  cool  bird ;  you 
should  have  seen  me  during  that  wait.  I  was  trem- 
bling like  a  child  with  excitement :  everything  had  gone 
so  marvellously.  And  for  the  first  time  in  the  whole 
show  it  dawned  on  me  that  not  only  was  there  a  chance 
of  getting  away  afterwards,  but  that  I  actually  wanted 
to.  Before  that  moment  I'd  assumed  on  the  certainty 
of  being  killed." 

For  a  moment  he  looked  curiously  in  front  of  him, 
and  a  slight  smile  lurked  round  the  corners  of  his 
mouth.  Then  suddenly,  and  apropos  of  nothing,  he 
remarked,  "Kathleen  Goring  tea'd  with  me  yesterday, 


150  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

Of  course,  it  was  largely  due  to  that  damned  orange- 
skin,  but  I — er — did  not  pass  a  sleepless  night/' 

Which  I  took  to  be  indicative  of  a  state  of  mind  in- 
duced by  the  rind  of  that  nutritious  fruit,  rather  than 
any  reference  to  his  broken  leg.  For  when  a  man  has 
passed  unscathed  through  parachute  descents  and  little 
things  like  that,  only  to  lose  badly  on  points  to  a  piece 
of  peel,  his  sense  of  humour  gets  a  jog  in  a  crucial 
place.  And  a  sense  of  humour  is  fatal  to  the  hopeless, 
undying  passion.  It  is  almost  as  fatal,  in  fact,  as  a 
hiccough  at  the  wrong  moment. 

"It  was  just  about  half -past  twelve  that  the  train 
came  along.  I  was  standing  by  the  end  of  the  bridge, 
with  my  overcoat  and  rifle  showing  in  the  faint  light 
of  the  moon.  The  engine-driver  waved  his  arm  and 
shouted  something  in  greeting  and  I  waved  back.  Then 
I  took  the  one  free  lead  and  waited  until  the  engine 
was  past  me.  I  could  see  the  first  of  the  guns,  just 
coming  abreast,  and  at  that  moment  I  connected  up 
with  the  battery  in  my  pocket.  Two  slabs  of  gun- 
cotton  make  a  noise,  as  you  know,  and  just  as  the 
engine  reached  the  charge,  a  sheet  of  flame  seemed  to 
leap  from  underneath  the  front  wheels.  The  driver 
hadn't  time  to  do  a  thing — the  engine  had  left  the 
rails  before  he  knew  what  had  happened.  And  then 
things  moved.  In  my  wildest  moments  I  had  never 
expected  such  a  success.  The  engine  crashed  through 


JIM  BRENTS  V.C.  151 

the  parapet  wall  and  hung  for  a  moment  in  space. 
Then  it  fell  downward  into  the  water,  and  by  the 
mercy  of  Allah  the  couplings  held.  The  first  two  guns 
followed  it,  through  the  gap  it  had  made,  and  then 
the  others  overturned  with  the  pull  before  they  got 
there,  smashing  down  the  wall  the  whole  way  along. 
Every  single  gun  went  wallop  into  the  Scheldt — to 
say  nothing  of  two  passenger  carriages  containing  the 
gunners  and  their  officers.  The  whole  thing  was  over 
in  five  seconds ;  and  you  can  put  your  shirt  on  it  that 
before  the  last  gun  hit  the  water  yours  truly  had  cast 
away  his  regalia  of  office  and  was  legging  it  like  a 
two-year-old  back  to  the  veuve  Demassiet  and  Tournai. 
It  struck  me  that  bridge  might  shortly  become  an  un- 
healthy spot." 

Jim  Brent  laughed.  "It  did.  I  had  to  stop  on  with 
the  old  lady  for  two  or  three  days  in  case  she  might 
be  suspected  owing  to  my  sudden  departure — and 
things  hummed.  They  shot  the  feldwebel  in  charge 
of  the  guard ;  they  shot  every  sentry ;  they  shot  every- 
body they  could  think  of;  but — they  never  even  sus- 
pected me.  I  went  out  and  had  a  look  next  day,  the 
day  I  think  that  R.F.C.  man  spotted  and  reported  the 
damage.  Two  of  the  guns  were  only  fit  for  turning 
into  hairpins,  and  the  other  four  looked  very  like  the 
morning  after. 

"Then,  after  I'd  waited  a  couple  of  days,  I  said 


152  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

good-bye  to  the  old  dear  and  trekked  off  towards  the 
Dutch  frontier,  gaining  immense  popularity,  old  son, 
by  describing  the  accident  to  all  the  soldiers  I  met. 

"That's  all,  I  think.  I  had  words  with  a  sentry  at 
the  frontier,  but  I  put  it  across  him  with  his  own 
bundook.  Then  I  wandered  to  our  Ambassador,  and 
sailed  for  England  in  due  course.  And — er — that's 
that/' 

Such  is  the  tale  of  Jim  Brent's  V.C.  There  only 
remains  for  me  to  give  the  wording  of  his  official  re- 
port on  the  matter. 

"I  have  the  honour  to  report,"  it  ran,  "that  at  mid- 
night on  the  25th  ult,  I  successfully  derailed  the  train 
conveying  six  guns  of  calibre  estimated  at  about 
9-inch,  each  mounted  on  a  railway  truck.  The  engine^, 
followed  by  the  guns,  departed  from  sight  in  about 
five  seconds,  and  fell  through  a  drop  of  some  sixty 
feet  into  the  River  Scheldt  from  the  bridge  just  west 
of  Tournai.  The  gunners  and  officers — who  were  in 
two  coaches  in  rear — were  also  killed.  Only  one 
seemed  aware  that  there  was  danger,  and  he,  owing  to 
his  bulk,  was  unable  to  get  out  of  the  door  of  his  car- 
riage. He  was,  I  think,  in  command.  I  investigated 
the  damage  next  day  when  the  military  authorities 
were  a  little  calmer,  and  beg  to  state  that  I  do  not 
consider  the  guns  have  been  improved  by  their  immer- 
sion. One,  at  least,  has  disappeared  in  the  mud.  'A 


JIM  BRENT'S  V.C.  153 

large  number  of  Germans  who  had  no  connection  with 
this  affair  have,  I  am  glad  to  report,  since  been  shot 
for  it. 

"I  regret  that  I  am  unable  to  report  in  person,  but 
I  am  at  present  in  hospital  with  a  broken  leg,  sustained 
by  my  inadvertently  stepping  on  a  piece  of  orange-peel, 
which  escaped  my  notice  owing  to  its  remarkable  simi- 
larity to  the  surrounding  terrain.  This  similarity  was 
doubtless  due  to  the  dirt  on  the  orange-peel." 

Which,  I  may  say,  should  not  be  taken  as  a  model  for 
official  reports  by  the  uninitiated. 


CHAPTER  VI 

RETRIBUTION 

ON  the  Promenade  facing  the  Casino  at  Monte 
Carlo  two  men  were  seated  smoking.  The  Ri- 
viera season  was  at  its  height,  and  passing  to  and  fro 
in  front  of  them  were  the  usual  crowd  of  well-dressed 
idlers,  who  make  up  the  society  of  that  delectable,  if 
expensive,  resort.  Now  and  again  a  casual  acquaint- 
ance would  saunter  by,  to  be  greeted  with  a  smile  from 
one,  and  a  curt  nod  from  the  other,  who,  with  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  steps  in  front  of  him,  seemed  oblivious  of 
all  else. 

"Cheer  up,  Jerry ;  she  won't  be  long.  Give  the  poor 
girl  time  to  digest  her  luncheon."  The  cheerful  one 
of  the  twain  lit  a  cigarette ;  and  in  the  process  received 
the  glad  eye  from  a  passing  siren  of  striking  aspect. 
"Great  Caesar,  old  son!"  he  continued,  when  she  was 
swallowed  up  in  the  crowd,  "you're  losing  the  chance 
of  a  lifetime.  Here,  gathered  together  to  bid  us  wel- 
come, are  countless  beautiful  women  and  brave  men. 
We  are  for  the  moment  the  star  turn  of  the  show — the 
brave  British  sailors  whom  the  ladies  delight  to  hon- 

155 


156  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

our.  Never  let  it  be  said,  old  dear,  that  you  failed 
them  in  this  their  hour  of  need." 

"Confound  it,  Ginger,  I  know  all  about  that!"  The 
other  man  sighed  and,  coming  suddenly  out  of  his 
brown  study,  he  too  leant  forward  and  fumbled  for 
his  cigarette-case.  "But  it's  no  go,  old  man,  I'm  get- 
ting a  deuced  sight  too  old  and  ugly  nowadays  to  chop 
and  change  about.  There  comes  a  time  of  life  when 
if  a  man  wants  to  kiss  one  particular  woman,  he  might 
as  well  kiss  his  boot  for  all  the  pleasure  fooling  around 
with  another  will  give  him." 

Ginger  Lawson  looked  at  him  critically.  "My  lad, 
I  fear  me  that  Nemesis  has  at  length  descended  on  you* 
No  longer  do  the  ortolans  and  caviare  of  unregenerate 
bachelorhood  tempt  you;  rather  do  you  yearn  for 
ground  rice  and  stewed  prunes  in  the  third  floor  back* 
These  symptoms " 

"Ginger,"  interrupted  the  other,  "dry  up.  You're 
a  dear,  good  soul,  but  when  you  try  to  be  funny,  I 
realise  the  type  of  man  who  writes  mottoes  for  crack- 
ers." He  started  up  eagerly,  only  to  sit  down  again 
disappointed. 

"Not  she,  not  she,  my  love,"  continued  the  other 
imperturbably.  "And,  in  the  meanwhile,  doesn't  it 
strike  you  that  you  are  committing  a  bad  tactical  error 
in  sitting  here,  with  a  face  like  a  man  that's  eaten  a 
bad  oyster,  on  the  very  seat  where  she's  bound  to  see 


RETRIBUTION  157 

you  when  she  does  finish  her  luncheon  and  come 
down?" 

"I  suppose  that  means  you  want  me  to  cocktail  with 
you?" 

"More  impossible  ideas  have  fructified,"  agreed  Gin- 
ger, rising. 

"No,  I'm  blowed  if 1" 

"Come  on,  old  son."  Lawson  dragged  him  re- 
luctantly to  his  feet.  "All  the  world  loves  a  lover, 
including  the  loved  one  herself;  but  you  look  like  a 
deaf-mute  at  a  funeral,  who's  swallowed  his  fee.  Come 
and  have  a  cocktail  at  Ciro's,  and  then,  merry  and 
bright  and  caracoling  like  a  young  lark,  return  and 
snatch  her  from  under  the  nose  of  the  accursed  Teu- 
ton." 

"Do  you  think  she's  going  to  accept  him,  Ginger?" 
he  muttered  anxiously,  as  they  sauntered  through  the 
drifting  crowd. 

"My  dear  boy,  ask  me  another.  But  she's  coming 
to  the  ball  dance  on  board  to-night,  and  if  the  delicate 
pink  illumination  of  your  special  kala  jugger,  shining 
softly  on  your  virile  face,  and  toning  down  the  some- 
what vivid  colour  scheme  of  your  sunburned  nose, 
doesn't  melt  her  heart,  I  don't  know  what  will " 

Which  all  requires  a  little  explanation.  Before  the 
war  broke  out  it  was  the  custom  each  year  for  that 
portion  of  the  British  Fleet  stationed  in  the  Mediter- 


158  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

ranean,  and  whose  headquarters  were  at  Malta,  to 
make  a  cruise  lasting  three  weeks  or  a  month  to  some 
friendly  sea-coast,  where  the  ports  were  good  and  the 
inhabitants  merry.  Trieste,  perhaps,  and  up  the  Adri- 
atic; Alexandria  and  the  countries  to  the  East;  or, 
best  of  all,  the  Riviera.  And  at  the  time  when  my 
story  opens  the  officers  of  the  British  Mediterranean 
Fleet,  which  had  come  to  rest  in  the  wonderful  natu- 
ral anchorage  of  Villefranche,  were  doing  their  best 
to  live  up  to  the  reputation  which  the  British  naval 
officer  enjoys  the  world  over.  Everywhere  within 
motor  distance  of  their  vessels  they  were  greeted  with 
joy  and  acclamation;  there  were  dances  and  dinners, 
women  and  wine — and  what  more  for  a  space  can  any 
hard-worked  sailor-man  desire?  During  their  brief 
intervals  of  leisure  they  slept  and  recuperated  on  board, 
only  to  dash  off  again  with  unabated  zeal  to  pastures 
new,  or  renewed,  as  the  case  might  be. 

Foremost  amongst  the  revellers  on  this,  as  on  other 
occasions,  was  Jerry  Travers,  torpedo-lieutenant  on 
the  flagship.  Endowed  by  Nature  with  an  infinite  ca- 
pacity for  consuming  cocktails,  and  with  a  disposition 
which  not  even  the  catering  of  the  Maltese  mess  man 
could  embitter,  his  sudden  fall  from  grace  was  all  the 
more  noticeable.  From  being  a  tireless  leader  of  revels, 
he  became  a  mooner  in  secret  places,  a  melancholy 
sigher  in  the  wardroom.  Which  fact  did  not  escape 


RETRIBUTION  159 

the  eyes  of  the  flagship  wardroom  officers.  And  Law- 
son,  the  navigating  lieutenant,  had  deputed  himself  as 
clerk  of  the  course. 

Staying  at  the  Hotel  de  Paris  was  an  American,  who 
was  afflicted  with  the  dreadful  name  of  Honks;  with 
him  were  his  wife  and  his  daughter  Maisie.  Maisie 
Honks  has  not  a  prepossessing  sound;  but  she  was 
the  girl  who  was  responsible  for  Jerry  Travers's  down- 
fall. He  had  met  her  at  a  ball  in  Nice  just  after  the 
Fleet  arrived,  and,  from  that  moment  he  had  become 
a  trifle  deranged.  Brother  officers  entering  his  cabin 
unawares  found  him  gazing  into  the  infinite  with  a 
slight  squint.  His  Marine  servant  spread  the  rumour 
on  the  lower  deck  that  "  Vd  taken  to  poetry,  and  'orri- 
ble  noises  in  his  sleep."  Like  a  goodly  number  of  men 
who  have  walked  merrily  through  life,  sipping  at  many 
flowers,  but  leaving  each  with  added  zest  for  the  next, 
when  he  took  it  he  took  it  hard.  And  Maisie  had  just 
about  reduced  him  to  idiocy.  I  am  no  describer  of 
girls,  but  I  was  privileged  to  know  and  revere  the  lady 
from  afar,  and  I  can  truthfully  state  that  I  have  rarely, 
if  ever,  seen  a  more  absolute  dear.  She  wasn't  fluffy, 
and  she  wasn't  statuesque ;  she  did  not  have  violet  eyes 
which  one  may  liken  to  mountain  pools,  or  hair  of  that 
colour  described  as  spun-gold.  She  was  just — Maisie, 
one  of  the  most  adorable  girls  that  ever  happened. 
And  Jerry,  as  I  say,  had  taken  it  very  badly. 


160  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

Unfortunately,  there  was  a  fly  in  the  ointment — • 
almost  of  bluebottle  size — in  the  shape  of  another  oc- 
cupant of  the  Hotel  de  Paris,  who  had  also  taken  it 
very  badly,  and  at  a  much  earlier  date.  The  Baron 
von  Dressier — an  officer  in  the  German  Navy,  and  a 
member  of  one  of  the  oldest  Prussian  families — had 
been  staying  at  Monte  Carlo  for  nearly  a  month,  on 
sick  leave  after  a  severe  dose  of  fever.  And  he,  like- 
wise, worshipped  with  ardour  and  zeal  at  the  Honks 
shrine.  Moreover,  being  apparently  a  very  decent  f el^ 
low,  and  living  as  he  did  in  the  same  hotel,  he  had, 
as  Jerry  miserably  reflected,  a  bit  of  a  preponderance 
in  artillery,  especially  as  he  had  opened  fire  more  than 
a  fortnight  before  the  British  Navy  had  appeared  on 
the  scene.  This,  then,  was  the  general  situation;  and 
the  particular  feature  of  the  moment,  which  caused 
an  outlook  on  life  even  more  gloomy  than  usual  in 
the  heart  of  the  torpedo-lieutenant,  was  that  the  Baron 
von  Dressier  had  been  invited  to  lunch  with  his  adored 
one,  while  he  had  not. 

"Something  potent,  Fritz."  Lawson  piloted  him 
firmly  to  the  bar  and  addressed  the  presiding  being 
respectfully.  "Something  potent  and  heady  which 
will  make  this  officer's  sad  heart  bubble  once  again 
with  the  joie  de  vivre.  He  has  been  crossed  in  love." 

"Don't  be  an  ass,  Ginger,"  said  the  other  peevishly. 


RETRIBUTION  161 

"My  dear  fellow,  the  credit  of  the  Navy  is  at  stake. 
Admitted  that  you've  had  a  bad  start  in  the  Honks 
stakes,  nevertheless — you  never  know — our  Teuton 
may  take  a  bad  fall.  And,  incidentally,  there  they 
both  are,  to  say  nothing  of  Honks  pere  et  mere."  He 
was  peering  through  the  window.  "No,  you  don't, 
my  boy !"  as  the  other  made  a  dash  for  the  door.  "The 
day  is  yet  young.  Lap  it  up ;  repeat  the  dose ;  and  then 
in  the  nonchalant  style  for  which  our  name  is  famous 
we  will  sally  forth  and  have  at  them." 

"Confound  it,  Ginger!  they  seem  to  be  on  devilish 
good  terms.  Look  at  the  blighter,  bending  towards 
her  as  if  he  owned  her."  Travers  stood  in  the  win- 
dow rubbing  his  hands  with  his  handkerchief  ner- 
vously. 

"What  d'you  expect  him  to  do?  Look  the  other 
way?"  The  navigating  officer  snorted.  "You  make 
me  tired,  Torps.  Come  along  if  you're  ready;  and  try 
and  look  jaunty  and  debonair." 

"Heavens!  old  boy;  I'm  as  nervous  as  an  ugly  girl 
at  her  first  party."  They  were  passing  into  the  street. 
"My  hands  are  clammy  and  my  boots  are  bursting 
with  feet." 

"I  don't  mind  about  your  boots ;  but  for  goodness* 
sake  dry  your  hands.  No  self-respecting  woman 
would  look  at  a  man  with  perspiring  palms." 

Ten  minutes  later  three  pairs  of  people  might  have 


162  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

been  seen  strolling  up  and  down  the  Promenade.  And 
as  the  arrangement  of  those  pairs  was  entirely  due 
to  the  navigating  lieutenant,  their  composition  is  per- 
haps worthy  of  a  paragraph.  At  one  end,  as  was  very 
right  and  proper,  Jerry  and  Miss  Honks  discussed  men 
and  matters — at  least,  I  assume  so — with  a  zest  that 
seemed  to  show  his  nervousness  was  only  transient. 
In  the  middle  the  stage-manager  and  Mrs.  Honks  dis- 
cussed Society,  with  a  capital  "S" — a  subject  of  which 
the  worthy  woman  knew  nothing  and  talked  a  lot.  At 
the  other  end  Mr.  Honks  poured  into  the  unresponsive 
ear  of  an  infuriated  Prussian  nobleman  his  new  scheme 
for  cornering  sausages.  Which  shows  what  a  naval 
officer  can  do  when  he  gets  down  to  it.  • 

•  •  •  •  • 

Now,  it  is  certainly  not  my  intention  to  recount  in 
detail  the  course  of  Jerry  Travers's  love  affair  during 
his  stay  on  the  Riviera.  Sufficient  to  say,  it  did  not 
run  smoothly.  But  there  are  one  or  two  things  which 
I  must  relate — things  which  concern  our  three  princi- 
pals. They  cover  the  first  round  in  the  contest — the 
round  which  the  German  won  on  points.  And  though 
they  have  no  actual  bearing  on  the  strange  happenings 
which  brought  about  the  second  and  last  round,  in 
circumstances  nothing  short  of  miraculous  at  a  future 
date,  yet  for  the  proper  understanding  of  the  retribu- 


RETRIBUTION  163 

tion  that  came  upon  the  Hun  at  the  finish  it  is  well 
that  they  should  be  told. 

They  occurred  that  same  evening,  at  the  ball  given 
by  the  British  Navy  on  the  flagship.  Few  sights,  I 
venture  to  think,  are  more  imposing,  and  to  a  certain 
extent  more  incongruous,  than  a  battleship  in  gala 
mood.  For  days  beforehand,  men  skilled  in  electricity 
erect  with  painstaking  care  a  veritable  fairyland  of 
coloured  lights,  which  shine  softly  on  the  deck  cleared 
for  dancing,  and  discreet  kala  juggers  prepared  with 
equal  care  by  officers  skilled  in  love.  Everywhere 
there  is  peace  and  luxury ;  the  music  of  the  band  steals 
across  the  silent  water ;  the  engine  of  death  is  at  rest. 
Almost  can  one  imagine  the  mighty  turbines,  the  great 
guns,  the  whole  infernal  paraphernalia  of  destruction, 
laughing  grimly  at  their  master's  amusements — those 
masters  whose  brains  forged  them  and  riveted  them 
and  gave  them  birth;  who  with  the  pressure  of  a  fin- 
ger can  launch  five  tons  of  death  at  a  speck  ten  miles 
away ;  whose  lightest  caprice  they  are  bound  to  obey — • 
and  yet  who  now  cover  them  with  flimsy  silks  and  fairy 
lights,  while  they  dance  and  make  love  to  laughing, 
soft-eyed  girls.  And  perhaps  there  was  some  such  idea 
in  the  gunnery-lieutenant's  mind  as  he  leant  against  the 
breech  of  a  twelve-inch  gun,  waiting  for  his  particular 
guest.  "Not  yet,  old  man,"  he  muttered  thoughtfully 


i64  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

— -"not  yet.  Tonight  we  play;  to-morrow — who 
knows  ?" 

Above,  the  lights  shone  out  unshaded,  silhouetting 
the  battle-cruiser  with  lines  of  fire  against  the  vault 
of  heaven,  sprinkled  with  the  golden  dust  of  a 
myriad  stars;  while  ceaselessly  across  the  violet  water 
steam-pinnaces  dashed  backwards  and  forwards,  carry- 
ing boatloads  of  guests  from  the  landing-stage,  and 
then  going  back  for  more.  At  the  top  of  the  gang- 
way the  admiral,  immaculate  in  blue  and  gold,  wel- 
comed them  as  they  arrived;  the  flag-lieutenant,  with 
the  weight  of  much  responsibility  on  his  shoulders, 
having  just  completed  a  last  lightning  tour  of  the  ship, 
only  to  discover  a  scarcity  of  hairpins  in  the  ladies' 
cloak-room,  stood  behind  him.  And  in  the  wardroom 
the  engineer-commander — a  Scotsman  of  pessimistic 
outlook — reviled  with  impartiality  all  ball  dances, 
adding  a  special  clause  for  the  one  now  commencing. 
But  then,  off  duty,  he  had  no  soul  above  bridge. 

In  this  setting,  then,  appeared  the  starters  for  the 
Honks  stakes  on  the  night  in  question,  only,  for  the 
time  being,  the  positions  were  reversed.  Now  the 
Baron  was  the  stranger  in  a  strange  land;  Jerry  was 
at  home — one  of  the  hosts.  Moreover,  as  has  already 
been  discreetly  hinted,  there  was  a  certain  and  very 
particular  kala  jugger.  And  into  this  very  particular 


RETRIBUTION  165 

kala  jugger  Jerry,  in  due  course,  piloted  his  adored 
one. 

I  am  now  coming  to  the  region  of  imagination.  I 
was  not  in  that  dim-lit  nook  with  them,  and  therefore 
I  am  not  in  a  position  to  state  with  any  accuracy  what 
occurred.  But — and  here  I  must  be  discreet — there 
was  a  midshipman,  making  up  in  cheek  and  inquisi- 
tiveness  what  he  lacked  in  years  and  stature.  Also,  as 
I  have  said,  the  Honks  stakes  were  not  a  private  mat- 
ter— far  from  it.  The  prestige  of  the  British  Navy 
was  at  stake,  and  betting  ran  high  in  the  gunroom,  or 
abode  of  "snotties."  Where  this  young  imp  of  mis- 
chief hid,  I  know  not;  he  swore  himself  that  his  over- 
hearing was  purely  accidental,  and  endeavoured  to  ex- 
cuse his  lamentable  conduct  by  saying  that  he  learned 
a  lot! 

His  account  of  the  engagement  was  breezy  and 
nautical;  and  as  there  is,  so  far  as  I  know,  no  other 
description  of  the  operations  extant,  I  give  it  for  what 
it  is  worth. 

Jerry,  he  told  me  in  the  Union  Club,  Valetta,  at  a 
later  date,  opened  the  action  with  some  tentative  shots 
from  his  lighter  armament.  For  ten  minutes  odd  he 
alternately  Honked  and  Maisied,  till,  as  my  ribald  in- 
formant put  it,  the  deck  rang  with  noises  reminiscent 
of  a  jibbing  motor-car.  She  countered  ably  with 


166  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

rhapsodies  over  the  ship,  the  band,  and  life  in  general, 
utterly  refusing  to  be  drawn  into  personalities. 

Then,  it  appeared,  Jerry's  self-control  completely 
deserted  him,  and  with  a  hoarse  and  throaty  noise  he 
opened  fire  with  the  full  force  of  his  starboard  broad- 
side ;  he  rammed  down  the  loud  pedal  and  let  drive. 

He  assured  her  that  she  was  the  only  woman  he 
could  ever  love ;  he  seized  her  ungloved  hand  and  fer- 
vently kissed  it;  in  short,  he  offered  her  his  hand  and 
heart  in  the  most  approved  style,  the  while  protesting 
his  absolute  unworthiness  to  aspire  to  such  an  honour 
as  her  acceptance  of  the  same. 

"Net  result,  old  dear,"  murmured  my  graceless  in- 
formant, pressing  the  bell  for  another  cocktail,  "nix — • 
a  frost  absolute,  a  frost  complete." 

"She  thought  he  and  the  whole  ship  were  bully,  and 
wasn't  that  little  boy  who'd  brought  them  out  in  the 
launch  the  cutest  ever,  but  she  reckoned  sailors  cut 
no  ice  with  poppa.  She  was  just  too  sorry  for  words 
it  had  ever  occurred,  but  there  it  was,  and  there  was 
nothing  more  to  be  said." 

For  the  truth  of  these  statements  I  will  not  vouch. 
I  do  know  that  on  the  night  in  question  Jerry  was  re- 
fused by  the  only  woman  he'd  ever  really  cared  about, 
because  he  told  me  so,  and  the  method  of  it  is  of  little 
account.  And  if  there  be  any  who  may  think  I  have 
dealt  with  this  tragedy  in  an  unfeeling  way,  I  must 


RETRIBUTION  167 

plead  in  excuse  that  I  have  but  quoted  my  informant, 
and  he  was  one  of  those  in  the  gunroom  who  had  lost 
money  on  the  event. 

Anyway,  let  me,  as  a  sop  to  the  serious-minded,  pass 
on  to  the  other  little  event  which  I  must  chronicle  be- 
fore I  come  to  my  finale.  In  this  world  the  serious 
and  the  gay,  the  tears  and  the  laughter,  come  to  us 
out  of  the  great  scroll  of  fate  in  strange,  jumbled  suc- 
cession. The  lucky  dip  at  a  bazaar  holds  no  more 
variegated  procession  of  surprises  than  the  mix  up 
we  call  life  brings  to  each  and  all.  And  so,  though 
my  tone  in  describing  Jerry's  proposal  has  perhaps 
been  wantonly  flippant,  and  though  the  next  incident 
may  seem  to  some  to  savour  of  melodrama — yet,  is  it 
not  life,  my  masters,  is  it  not  life? 

I  was  in  the  ward-room  when  it  occurred.  Jerry, 
standing  by  the  fireplace,  was  smoking  a  cigarette,  and 
looking  like  the  proverbial  gentleman  who  has  lost  a 
sovereign  and  found  sixpence.  There  were  several 
officers  in  there  at  the  time,  and — the  Baron  von  Dress- 
ier. And  the  Prussian  had  been  drinking. 

Not  that  he  was  by  any  means  drunk,  but  he  was 
in  that  condition  when  some  men  become  merry,  some 
confidential,  some — what  shall  I  say? — not  exactly 
pugnacious,  but  on  the  way  to  it.  He  belonged  to  the 
latter  class.  All  the  worst  traits  of  the  Prussian  offi- 
cer, the  domineering,  sneering,  aggressive  mannerisms 


168  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

— which,  to  do  him  justice,  in  normal  circumstances 
he  successfully  concealed,  at  any  rate,  when  mixing 
with  other  nationalities — were  showing  clearly  in  his 
face.  He  was  once  again  the  arrogant,  intolerant  auto- 
crat— truly,  in  vino  veritas.  Moreover,  his  eyes  were 
wandering  with  increasing  frequency  to  Jerry,  who, 
so  far,  seemed  unconscious  of  the  scrutiny. 

After  a  while  I  caught  Ginger  Lawson's  eye  and  he 
shrugged  his  shoulders  slightly.  He  told  me  after- 
wards that  he  had  been  fearing  a  flare-up  for  some 
minutes,  but  had  hoped  it  would  pass  over.  How- 
ever, he  strolled  over  to  Jerry  and  started  talking. 

"Mop  that  up,  Jerry,"  he  said,  "and  come  along  and 
do  your  duty.  Baron,  you  don't  seem  to  be  dancing 
much  to-night.  Can't  I  find  you  a  partner?" 

"Thank  you,  but  I  probably  know  more  people  here 
than  you  do."  The  tone  even  more  than  the  words 
was  a  studied  insult.  "Lieutenant  Travers's  duty 
seems  to  have  been  unpleasant  up  to  date,  which  per- 
haps accounts  for  his  reluctance  to  resume  it.  Are 
you — er — lucky  at  cards?"  This  time  the  sneer  was 
too  obvious  to  be  disregarded. 

Jerry  looked  up,  and  the  eyes  of  the  two  men  met. 
"It  is  possible,  Baron  von  Dressier,"  he  remarked 
icily,  "that  in  your  navy  remarks  of  that  type  are  re- 
garded as  witty.  Would  it  be  asking  you  too  much 


RETRIBUTION  169 

to  request  that  you  refrain  from  using  them  in  a  ship 
where  they  are  merely  considered  vulgar?" 

By  this  time  a  dead  silence  had  settled  on  the  ward- 
room, one  of  those  awkward  silences  which  any  scene 
of  this  sort  produces  on  those  who  are  in  the  unfortu- 
nate position  of  onlookers. 

Von  Dressier  was  white  with  passion.  "You  forget 
yourself,  lieutenant.  I  would  have  you  to  know  that 
my  uncle  is  a  prince  of  the  blood  royal." 

"That  apparently  does  not  prevent  his  nephew  from 
'failing  to  remember  the  customs  that  hold  amongst 
gentlemen." 

"Gentlemen!"  The  Prussian  looked  round  the 
circle  of  silent  officers  with  a  scornful  laugh;  the  fumes 
of  the  spirits  he  had  drunk  were  mounting  to  his 
head  with  his  excitement.  "You  mean — shopkeepers." 

With  a  muttered  curse  several  officers  started  for- 
ward ;  no  ball  is  a  teetotal  affair,  I  suppose,  and  scenes 
of  this  sort  are  dangerous  at  any  time.  Travers  held 
up  his  hand,  sharply,  incisively. 

"Gentlemen,  remember  this — er — Prussian  officer 
and  gentleman  is  our  guest.  That  being  the  case,  sir" 
— he  turned  to  the  German — "you  are  quite  safe  in 
insulting  us  as  much  as  you  like." 

"The  question  of  safety  would  doubtless  prove  irre- 
sistible to  an  Englishman."  The  face  of  the  German 
was  distorted  with  rage,  he  seemed  to  be  searching  in 


170  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

his  mind  for  insults;  then  suddenly  he  tried  a  new 
line. 

"Bah !  I  am  not  a  guttersnipe  to  bandy  words  with 
you.  You  will  not  have  long  to  wait,  you  English,  and 
then — when  the  day  does  come,  my  friends;  when, 
at  last,  we  come  face  to  face,  then,  by  God !  then — 

"Well,  what  then,  Baron  von  Dressier?"  A  stei 
voice  cut  like  a  whiplash  across  the  wardroom ;  stand- 
ing in  the  door  was  the  admiral  himself,  who  had  en- 
tered unperceived. 

For  a  moment  the  coarse,  furious  face  of  the  Prus- 
sian paled  a  little ;  then  with  a  supreme  effort  of  arro- 
gance he  pulled  himself  together.  "Then,  sir,  we  shall 
see — the  world  will  see — whether  you  or  we  will  be 
the  victor.  The  old  and  effete  versus  the  ne\*and  effi- 
cient. Der  Tag."  He  lifted  his  hand  and  let  it  drop; 
in  the  silence  one  could  have  heard  a  pin  drop. 

"The  problem  you  raise  is  of  interest,"  answered 
the  admiral,  in  the  same  icy  tone.  "In  the  meanwhile 
any  discussion  is  unprofitable ;  and  in  the  surroundings 
in  which  you  find  yourself  at  present  it  is  more  than 
unprofitable — it  is  a  gross  breach  of  all  good  form  and 
service  etiquette.  As  our  guest  we  were  pleased  to 
see  you ;  you  will  pardon  my  saying  that  now  I  can  no 
longer  regard  you  as  a  guest.  Will  you  kindly  give 
orders,  Lieutenant  Travers,  for  a  steam-pinnace? 
Baron  von  Dressier  will  go  ashore."  f 


RETRIBUTION  171 

Such  was  the  other  matter  that  concerned  my  prin- 
cipals, and  which,  of  necessity,  I  have  had  to  record. 
Such  an  incident  is  probably  almost  unique ;  but  when 
there's  a  girl  at  the  bottom  of  things  and  wine  at  the 
top,  something  is  likely  to  happen.  The  most  un- 
fortunate thing  about  it  all,  as  far  as  Jerry  was  con- 
cerned, was  an  untimely  indisposition  on  the  part  of 
Honks  mere.  As  a  coincidence  nothing  could  have 
been  more  disastrous. 

The  pinnace  was  at  the  foot  of  the  gangway,  and 
the  Baron — his  eyes  savage — was  just  preparing  to 
take  an  elaborate  and  sarcastic  farewell  of  the  silent 
^orpedo-lieutenant,  who  was  regarding  him  with  an 
air  of  cold  contempt,  when  Mr.  Honks  appeared  on 
the  scene^  * 

(*"Say,  Baron,  are  you  going  away?" 

"I  am, ''Mr.  Honks{  My  presence  seems  distasteful 
to  the  officers." 

The  American  seemed  hardly  to  hear  the  last  part 
of  the  remark.  "I  guess  we'll  quit  too.  My  wife's 
been  taken  bad.'  Can  we  come  in  your*boat,  Baron?" 

"I  shall  be  more  than  delighted."  His  eyes  came 
round  with  ill-concealed  triumph  to  Traverses  im- 
passive face  as  the  American  bustled  away.  "I  venture 
to  think  tha.^  the  Honks  stakes  are  still  open." 

"By  HeaVen!     You  blackguard!"  muttered  Jerry, 
•  his  passion  .overcoming  him  for  a  moment.     "I  be- 


\ 


MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

lieve  I'd  give  my  commission  to  smash  your  damned 
face  in  with  a  marline-spike  and  chuck  you  into  the 


"I  won't  forget  what  you  say,"  answered  the  Ger- 
man vindictively.  "One  day  I'll  make  you  eat  those 
words;  and  then  when  I've  sunk  your  rat-eaten  ship, 
it  will  be  me  that  uses  the  marline-spike — you  swine/' 

It  was  as  well  for  Jerry,  and  for  the  Baron  too,  that 
at  this  psychological  moment  the  Honks  menage  ar- 
rived, otherwise  that  German  would  probably  have 
gone  into  the  sea. 

"Good  night,  lady,"  murmured  Jerry,  when  he  had 
solicitously  inquired  after  her  mother's  health.  "Is 
there  no  hope?"  He  was  desperately  anxious  to  seize 
the  second  or  two  left;  he  knew  she  would  not  hear 
the  true  account  of  what  had  happened  from  the 
iBaron. 

"I  guess  not,"  she  answered  softly.  "But  come  and 
call."  With  a  smile  she  was  gone,  and  from  the  boat 
there  came  the  Baron's  voice  mocking  through  the  still 
air,  "Good  night,  Lieutenant  Travers.  Thank  you  so 
much." 

And,  drowned  by  the  band  that  started  at  that  mo- 
ment, the  wonderful  and  fearful  curse  that  left  the 
torpedo-lieutenant's  lips  drifted  into  the  night  un- 
heard. 


RETRIBUTION  173 

Let  us  go  on  a  couple  of  years.  The  moment 
thought  of  by  the  gunnery-lieutenant,  the  day  ac- 
claimed by  the  Prussian  officer  had  come.  England 
was  at  war.  Der  Tag  was  a  reality.  No  longer  did 
silks  and  shaded  lights  form  part  of  the  equipment  of 
the  Navy,  but  grim  and  sombre,  ruthlessly  stripped 
of  everything  not  absolutely  necessary,  the  great  grey 
monsters  watched  tirelessly  through  the  flying  scud 
of  the  North  Sea  for  "the  fleet  that  stayed  at  home." 
Only  their  submarines  were  out,  and  these,  day  by 
day,  diminished  in  numbers,  until  the  men  who  sent 
them  out  looked  at  one  another  fearfully — so  many 
went  out,  so  few  came  back. 

Tearing  through  the  water  one  day,  away  a  bit  to 
the  south-west  of  Bantry  Bay,  with  the  haze  of  Ire- 
land lying  like  a  smudge  on  the  horizon,  was  a  lean, 
villainous-looking  torpedo-boat-destroyer.  She  was 
plunging  her  nose  into  the  slight  swell,  now  and  again 
drenching  the  oilskinned  figure  standing  motionless  on 
the  bridge.  Behind  her  a  great  cloud  of  black  smoke 
drifted  across  the  grey  water,  and  the  whole  vessel 
was  quivering  with  the  force  of  her  engines.  She  was 
doing  her  maximum  and  a  bit  more,  but  still  the  steady, 
watchful  eyes  of  the  officer  on  the  bridge  seemed  impa- 
tient, and  every  now  and  again  he  cursed  softly  and 
with  wonderful  fluency  under  his  breath. 

It  was  our  friend  Jerry,  who  at  the  end  of  his  time 


174  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

on  the  flagship  had  been  given  one  of  the  newest 
T.B.D/s,  and  now  with  every  ounce  he  could  get  out 
of  her  he  was  racing  towards  the  spot  from  which  had 
come  the  last  S.O.S.  message,  nearly  an  hour  ago. 
There  was  something  grimly  foreboding  about  those 
agonised  calls  sent  out  to  the  world  for  perhaps  twenty 
minutes,  and  then — silence,  nothing  more.  German 
submarines,  he  reflected,  as  for  the  tenth  time  he  peered 
at  his  wrist-watch,  German  submarines  engaged  once 
again  in  the  only  form  of  war  they  could  compete  in 
or  dared  undertake.  And  not  for  the  first  time  his 
thoughts  went  back  to  the  vainglorious  boastings  of 
his  friend  the  Baron. 

"Damn  him/'  he  muttered.  "I  haven't  forgotten  the 
sweep." 

There  were  many  things  he  hadn't  forgotten;  how, 
when  he'd  gone  to  call  on  the  lady  as  requested,  she 
had  been  "out,"  and  it  was  that  sort  of  "out"  that 
means  "in."  How  a  letter  had  been  answered  cour- 
teously but  distinctly  coldly,  and,  impotent  with  rage, 
he  had  been  forced  to  the  conclusion  that  she  was  of- 
fended with  him.  And  with  the  Prussian  able  to  say 
what  he  liked,  it  was  not  difficult  to  find  the  reason. 

Then  the  Fleet  left,  and  Jerry  resigned  himself  to 
the  inevitable,  a  proceeding  which  was  not  made  easier 
by  the  many  rumours  he  heard  to  the  effect  that  the 


RETRIBUTION  175 

Baron  himself  had  done  the  trick.  Distinctly  he 
wanted  once  again  to  meet  that  gentleman. 

"We  ought  to  see  her,  if  she  hasn't  sunk,  sir,  by 
now."  The  sub-lieutenant  on  the  bridge  spoke  in  his 
ear. 

Travers  nodded  and  shrugged  his  shoulders.  He 
had  realised  that  fact  for  some  minutes. 

"Something  on  the  starboard  bow."  The  voice  of 
the  look-out  man  came  to  his  ears. 

"It's  a  boat,  an  open  boat,"  cried  the  sub.,  after  a 
careful  inspection,  "and  it's  pretty  full,  by  Jove!" 

A  curt  order,  and  the  T.B.D.  swung  round  and  tore 
down  on  the  little  speck  bobbing  in  the  water.  And 
they  were  still  a  few  hundred  yards  away  when  a  look 
of  dawning  horror  strangely  mixed  with  joy  spread 
over  Jerry's  face.  His  glass  was  fixed  on  the  boat, 
and  who  in  God's  name  was  the  woman — impossible, 
of  course — but  surely.  ...  If  it  wasn't  her  it  was 
her  twin  sister;  his  hand  holding  the  glass  trembled 
with  eagerness,  and  then  at  last  he  knew.  The  woman 
standing  up  in  the  stern  of  the  boat  was  Maisie,  and  as 
he  got  nearer  he  saw  there  was  a  look  on  her  face 
which  made  him  catch  his  breath  sharply. 

"Great  God !"  The  sub's  voice  roused  him.  "What 
have  they  been  doing?"  No  need  to  ask  whom  he 
meant  by  "they."  "The  boat  is  a  shambles." 

The  destroyer  slowed  down,  and  from  the  crew  who 


176  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

looked  into  that  little  open  boat  came  dreadful  curses. 
It  ran  with  blood ;  and  at  the  bottom  women  and  chil- 
dren moaned  feebly,  while  an  elderly  man  contorted 
with  pain  in  the  stern,  writhed  and  sobbed  in  agony. 
And  over  this  black  scene  the  eyes  of  the  man  and 
the  woman  met. 

"Carefully,  carefully,  lads,"  Travers  sang  out.  This 
was  no  time  for  questions,  only  the  poor  torn  frag- 
ments counted.  Afterwards,  perhaps.  Very  tenderly 
the  sailors  lifted  out  the  bodies,  and  one  of  them — a 
little  girl  in  his  arms,  with  a  dreadful  wound  in  her 
head — jabbered  like  a  maniac  with  the  fury  of  his 
rage.  And  so  after  many  days  they  again  came  face 
to  face. 

"Are  you  wounded  ?"  he  whispered. 

"No."  Her  voice  was  hard  and  strained;  she  was 
near  the  breaking  point.  "They  sunk  us  without  warn- 
ing— the  Lucania — and  then  shelled  us  in  the  open 
boats." 

"Dear  heavens !"  Jerry's  voice  was  shaking.  "Ah  I 
but  you're  not  hurt,  my  lady;  they  didn't  hit  you?" 

"My  mother  was  drowned,  and  my  father  too." 
She  was  swaying  a  little.  "It  was  the  Ul  99." 

"Ah !"    The  man's  voice  was  almost  a  sigh. 

"Submarine  on  the  port  bow,  sir."  A  howl  came 
from  the  look-out,  followed  by  the  sharp,  detonating 
reports  of  the  destroyer's  quick-firers.  And  then  a 


RETRIBUTION  177 

roaring  cheer.  Like  lightning  Jerry  was  upon  the 
bridge,  and  even  he  could  scarcely  contain  himself. 
There,  lying  helpless  in  the  water,  with  a  huge  hole 
in  her  conning  tower,  wallowed  the  U  99.  Two  direct 
hits  from  the  destroyer's  guns  in  a  vital  spot,  and  the 
submarine  was  a  submarine  no  longer.  Just  one  of 
those  strokes  of  poetic  justice  which  happen  so  rarely 
in  war. 

Like  rats  from  a  sinking  ship  the  Germans  were 
pouring  up  and  diving  into  the  water,  and  with 
snarling  faces  the  Englishmen  waited  for  them,  waited 
for  them  with  the  dying  proofs  of  their  vileness  still 
lying  on  the  deck  as  one  by  one  they  came  on  board. 
Suddenly  with  a  sucking  noise  the  submarine  foun- 
dered, and  over  the  seething,  troubled  waters  where  she 
had  been  a  sheet  of  blackish  oil  slowly  spread. 

But  Jerry  spared  no  glance  for  the  sinking  boat — - 
he  did  not  so  much  as  look  at  the  German  sailors  hud- 
dled fearfully  together.  With  hard,  merciless  eyes  he 
faced  the  submarine  commander.  For  the  first  time 
in  his  life  he  saw  red:  for  the  first  time  in  his  life 
there  was  murder  in  his  soul,  and  the  heavy  belaying- 
pin  in  his  hand  seemed  to  goad  him  on.  "Suppose  the 
positions  had  been  reversed,"  mocked  a  voice  in  his 
brain.  "Would  he  have  hesitated?"  The  night  two 
years  ago  surged  back  to  his  mind ;  the  plaintive  crying 
of  the  dying  child  struck  on  his  ears.  He  stepped  a 


MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

pace  forward  with  a  snarl — his  grip  tightened  on  the 
bar — when  suddenly  the  man  who  had  carried  up  the 
little  girl  gave  a  hoarse  cry,  and  with  all  his  force 
smote  the  nearest  German  in  the  mouth.  The  German 
fell  like  a  stone. 

"Stand  fast."  Jerry's  voice  dominated  the  scene. 
The  old  traditions  had  come  back :  the  old  wonderful 
discipline.  The  iron  pin  dropped  with  a  clang  on  the 
deck.  "It  is  not  their  fault,  they  were  only  obeying 
his  orders."  And  once  again  his  eyes  rested  on  their 
officer. 

"So  we  meet  again,  Baron  von  Dressier,"  he  re- 
marked, "and  the  rat-eaten  ship  is  not  sunk.  Is  this 
your  work?"  He  pointed  to  the  mangled  bodies. 

"It  is  not,"  muttered  the  Prussian. 

"You  lie,  you  swine,  you  lie!  Unfortunately  for 
you  you  didn't  quite  carry  out  your  infamous  butchery 
completely  enough.  There  is  one  person  on  board  who 
knows  the  U  99  sank  the  Lucania  without  warning  and 
was  in  the  boat  you  shelled." 

"I  don't  believe  you,  I — — " 

"Then  perhaps  you'll  believe  her.  I  rather  think 
you  know  her — very  well."  As  he  spoke  he  was  look- 
ing behind  the  Prussian,  to  where  Maisie — roused 
from  her  semi-stupor  by  the  Baron's  voice — had  got 
up,  and  with  her  hand  to  her  heart  was  swaying  back- 
wards and  forwards.  "Look  behind  you,  you  cur." 


RETRIBUTION  179 

The  Prussian  turned,  and  then  with  a  cry  staggered 
back,  white  to  the  lips.  "You,  great  heavens,  you — 
Maisie- 

And  so  once  again  the  three  principals  of  my  little 
drama  were  face  to  face :  only  the  setting  had  changed. 
No  longer  sensuous  music  and  the  warm,  violet  waters 
of  the  Riviera  for  a  background ;  this  time  the  moaning 
of  dying  men  and  children  was  the  ghastly  orchestra, 
and,  with  the  grey  scud  of  the  Atlantic  flying  past 
them,  the  Englishman  and  the  German  faced  one  an- 
other, while  the  American  girl  stood  by.  And  watch- 
ing them  were  the  muttering  sailors. 

At  last  she  spoke.  "This  ring,  I  believe,  is  yours." 
She  took  a  magnificent  half -hoop  of  diamonds  from 
her  engagement  finger  and  flung  it  into  the  sea.  Then 
she  moved  towards  him. 

"You  drowned  my  mother,  and  for  that  I  strike 
you  once."  She  hit  him  in  the  face  with  an  iron-shod 
pin.  "You  drowned  my  father,  and  for  that  I  strike 
you  again."  Once  again  she  struck  him  in  the  face. 
"I  will  leave  a  fighting  man  and  a  gentleman  to  deal 
with  you  for  those  poor  mites."  With  a  choking  sob 
she  turned  away,  and  once  again  sank  down  on  the 
coil  of  rope. 

The  Prussian,  sobbing  with  pain  and  rage,  with  the 
blood  streaming  from  his  face,  was  not  a  pretty  sight; 
but  in  Travers's  face  there  was  no  mercy. 


i8o  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

"  The  old  and  effete  versus  the  new  and  efficient !' 
I  seem  to  recall  those  words  from  our  last  meeting. 
May  I  congratulate  you  on  your  efficiency  ?  Bah !  you 
swine" — his  face  flamed  with  sudden  passion — "if  you 
aren't  skulking  in  Kiel,  you're  butchering  women.  By 
heavens!  I  can  conceive  of  nothing  more  utterly  per- 
fect than  flogging  you  to  death." 

The  Prussian  shrank  back,  his  face  livid  with  fear. 

"They  were  my  orders,"  he  muttered.  "For  God's 
sake " 

"Oh,  don't  be  frightened,  Baron  von  Dressier."  The 
Englishman's  voice  was  once  again  under  control. 
"The  old  and  effete  don't  do  that.  You  were  safe  as 
our  guest  two  years  ago ;  you  are  safe  as  our  prisoner 
now.  Your  precious  carcass  will  be  returned  safe  and 
sound  to  your  Royal  uncle  at  the  end  of  the  war,  and 
my  only  hope  is  that  your  face  will  still  bear  those 
honourable  scars.  Moreover,  if  what  you  say  is  true, 
if  the  orders  of  your  Government  include  shelling  an 
open  boat  crammed  with  defenceless  women  and  chil- 
dren— and  neutrals  at  that — I  can  only  say  that  their 
infamy  is  so  incredible  as  to  force  one  to  the  con- 
clusion that  they  are  not  responsible  for  their  actions. 
But — make  no  mistake — they  will  get  their  retribu- 
tion." 

For  a  moment  he  fell  silent,  looking  at  the  cower- 


RETRIBUTION  iSr 

ing,  blood-stained  face  opposite  him,  and  then  a  piti- 
ful wail  behind  him  made  him  turn  round. 

"Mummie,  I'se  hurted."  On  her  knees  beside  the 
little  girl  was  Maisie,  soothing  her  as  best  she  could, 
easing  the  throbbing  head,  whispering  that  mummie 
couldn't  come  for  a  while.  "I'se  hurted,  mummie — - 
I'se  hurted." 

Travers  turned  back  again,  and  the  eyes  of  the  two 
men  met. 

"My  God !  Is  it  possible  that  a  sailor  could  do  such 
a  thing?" 

His  voice  was  barely  above  a  whisper,  yet  the  Prus- 
sian heard  and  winced.  In  the  depths  of  even  the 
foulest  bully  there  is  generally  some  little  redeeming 
spark. 

"I'se  hurted;  I  want  my  mummie." 

The  Prussian's  lips  moved,  but  no  sound  came,  while 
in  his  eyes  was  the  look  of  a  man  haunted.  Travers 
watched  him  silently ;  and  at  length  he  spoke  again. 

"As  I  said,  your  rulers  will  get  their  deserts  in  time, 
but  I  think,  Baron  von  Dressier,  your  Nemesis  has 
come  on  you  already.  That  little  poor  kid  is  asking 
you  for  her  mother.  Don't  forget  it  in  the  years  to 
come,  Baron.  No,  I  don't  think  you  will  forget  it." 

My  story  is  finished.  Later  on,  when  some  of  the 
dreadful  nightmare  through  which  she  had  passed  had 


182  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

been  effaced  from  her  mind,  Maisie  and  the  man  who 
had  come  to  her  out  of  the  grey  waters  discussed  many 
things.  And  the  story  which  the  Prussian  had  told 
her  after  the  dance  on  the  flagship  was  finally  dis- 
credited. 

Can  anyone  recommend  me  a  good  cheap  book  on 
"Things  a  Best  Man  Should  Know".? 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  DEATH  GRIP 

TWO  reasons  have  impelled  me  to  tell  the  story 
of  Hugh  Latimer,  and  both  I  think  are  good 
and  sufficient.  First  I  was  his  best  friend,  and  second 
I  know  more  about  the  tragedy  than  anyone  else — even 
including  his  wife.  I  saw  the  beginning  and  the  end; 
she — poor  broken-hearted  girl — saw  only  the  end. 

There  have  been  many  tragedies  since  this  war 
started;  there  will  be  many  more  before  Finis  is  writ- 
ten,— and  each,  I  suppose,  to  its  own  particular  suffer- 
ers seems  the  worst.  But,  somehow,  to  my  mind 
Hugh's  case  is  without  parallel,  unique — the  devil's 
arch  of  cruelty.  I  will  give  you  the  story — and  you 
shall  judge  for  yourself. 

Let  us  lift  the  curtain  and  present  a  dug-out  in  a  sup- 
port trench  somewhere  near  Givenchy.  A  candle  gut- 
ters in  a  bottle,  the  grease  running  down  like  a  minia- 
ture stalactite  congeals  on  an  upturned  packing-case. 
On  another  packing-case  the  remnants  of  a  tongue, 
some  sardines,  and  a  goodly  array  of  bottles  with  some 
tin  mugs  and  plates  completes  the  furniture — or  almost. 

183 


184  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

I  must  not  omit  the  handsome  coloured  pictures — 
three  in  all — of  ladies  of  great  beauty  and  charm,  clad 
in — well,  clad  in  something  at  any  rate.  The  occu- 
pants of  this  palatial  abode  were  Hugh  Latimer  and 
myself ;  at  the  rise  of  the  curtain  both  lying  in  corners, 
on  piles  of  straw. 

Outside,  a  musician  was  coaxing  noises  from  a 
mouth-organ;  occasional  snatches  of  song  came 
through  the  open  entrance,  intermingled  with  bursts 
of  laughter.  One  man,  I  remember,  was  telling  an 
interminable  story  which  seemed  to  be  the  history  of 
a  gentleman  called  Nobby  Clark,  who  had  dallied 
awhile  with  a  lady  in  an  estaminet  at  Bethune,  and  had 
ultimately  received  a  knock-out  blow  with  a  frying-pan 
over  the  right  eye,  for  being  too  rapid  in  his  atten- 
tions. Just  the  usual  dull,  strange,  haunting  trench 
life — which  varies  not  from  day's  end  to  day's  end. 

At  intervals  a  battery  of  our  own  let  drive,  the  blast 
of  the  explosion  catching  one  through  the  open  door; 
at  intervals  a  big  German  shell  moaned  its  way 
through  the  air  overhead — an  express  bound  for  some- 
where. Had  you  looked  out  to  the  front,  you  would 
have  seen  the  bright  green  flares  lobbing  monotonously 
up  into  the  night,  all  along  the  line.  War — mod- 
ern war;  boring,  incredible  when  viewed  in  cold 
blood.  .  .  . 

"Hullo,  Hugh."    A  voice  at  the  door  roused  us  both 


THE  DEATH  GRIP  185 

from  our  doze,  and  the  Adjutant  came  in.  "Will  you 
put  your  watches  right  by  mine?  We  are  making  a 
small  local  attack  to-morrow  morning,  and  the  bat- 
talion is  to  leave  the  trenches  at  6.35  exactly." 

"Rather  sudden,  isn't  it?"  queried  Hugh,  setting  his 
watch. 

"Just  come  through  from  Brigade  Headquarters. 
Bombs  are  being  brought  up  to  H.I5.  Further  orders 
sent  round  later.  Bye-bye." 

He  was  gone,  and  once  more  we  sat  thinking  to  the 
same  old  accompaniment  of  trench  noises ;  but  in  rather 
a  different  frame  of  mind.  To-morrow  morning  at 
6.35  peace  would  cease;  we  should  be  out  and  running 
over  the  top  of  the  ground ;  we  should  be  ... 

"Will  they  use  gas,  I  wonder?"  Hugh  broke  the 
silence. 

"Wind  too  fitful,"  I  answered ;  "and  I  suppose  if  s 
only  a  small  show." 

"I  wonder  what  it's  for.  I  wish  one  knew  more 
about  these  affairs;  I  suppose  one  can't,  but  it  would 
make  it  more  interesting." 

The  mouth-organ  stopped ;  there  were  vigorous  de- 
mands for  an  encore. 

"Poor  devils,"  he  went  on  after  a  moment.  "I  won- 
der how  many? — I  wonder  how  many?" 

"A  new  development  for  you,  Hugh."     I  grinned 


i86  MEN,  WOMEN  AND*  GUNS 

at  him.  "Merry  and  bright,  old  son — your  usual 
motto,  isn't  it?" 

He  laughed.  "Dash  it,  Ginger — you  can't  always 
be  merry  and  bright.  I  don't  know  why — perhaps  it's 
second  sight — but  I  feel  a  sort  of  presentiment  of  im- 
pending disaster  to-night.  I  had  the  feeling  before 
Clements  came  in." 

"Rot,  old  man,"  I  answered  cheerfully.  "You'll 
probably  win  a  V.C.,  and  the  greatest  event  of  the 
war  will  be  when  it  is  presented  to  your  cheeild." 

Which  prophecy  was  destined  to  prove  the  cruellest 
mixture  of  truth  and  fiction  the  mind  of  man  could 
well  conceive.  .  .  . 

"Good  Lord !"  he  said  irritably,  taking  me  seriously 
for  a  moment ;  "we're  a  bit  too  old  soldiers  to  be  guyed 
by  palaver  about  V.C.'s."  Then  he  recovered  his  good 
temper.  "No,  Ginger,  old  thing,  there's  big  things 
happening  to-morrow.  Hugh  Latimer's  life  is  going 
into  the  melting-pot.  I'm  as  certain  of  it  as — as  that 
I'm  going  to  have  a  whisky  and  soda."  He  laughed, 
and  delved  into  a  packing-case  for  the  seltzogene. 

"How's  the  son  and  heir?"  I  asked  after  a  while. 

"Going  strong,"  he  answered.  "Going  strong,  the 
little  devil." 

And  then  we  fell  silent,  as  men  will  at  such  a  time. 
The  trench  outside  was  quiet;  the  musician,  having 
obliged  with  his  encore,  no  longer  rendered  the  night 


THE  DEATH  GRIP  187 

hideous — even  the  guns  were  still.  What  would  it  be 
to-morrow  night?  Should  I  still  be  .  .  .  ?  I  shook 
myself  and  started  to  scribble  a  letter;  I  was  getting 
afraid  of  inactivity — afraid  of  my  thoughts. 

"I'm  going  along  the  trenches,"  said  Hugh  sud- 
denly, breaking  the  long  silence.  "I  want  to  see  the 
Sergeant-Major  and  give  some  orders." 

He  was  gone,  and  I  was  alone.  In  spite  of  myself 
my  thoughts  would  drift  back  to  what  he  had  been 
saying,  and  from  there  to  his  wife  and  the  son  and 
heir.  My  mind,  overwrought,  seemed  crowded  with 
pictures:  they  jumbled  through  my  brains  like  a  film 
on  a  cinematograph. 

I  saw  his  marriage,  the  bridal  arch  of  officers' 
swords,  the  sweet-faced,  radiant  girl.  And  then  his 
house  came  on  to  the  screen — the  house  where  I  had 
spent  many  a  pleasant  week-end  while  we  trained  and 
sweated  to  learn  the  job  in  England.  He  was  a  man 
of  some  wealth  was  Hugh  Latimer,  and  his  house 
showed  it;  showed  moreover  his  perfect,  unerring 
taste.  Bits  of  stuff,  curios,  knick-knacks  from  all  over 
the  world  met  one  in  odd  corners;  prints,  books,  all 
of  the  very  best,  seemed  to  fit  into  the  scheme  as  if 
they'd  grown  there.  Never  did  a  single  thing  seem 
to  whisper  as  you  passed,  "I'm  really  very  rare  and 
beautiful,  but  I've  been  dragged  into  the  wrong  place, 
and  now  I  know  I'm  merely  vulgar." 


i88  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

There  are  houses  I  wot  of  where  those  clamorous 

r*- 

whispers  drown  the  nightingales.  But  if  you  can  pass 
through  rooms  full  of  bric-a-brac — silent  bric-a-brac: 
bric-a-brac  conscious  of  its  rectitude  and  needing  no 
self  apology,  you  may  be  certain  that  the  owner  will 
not  give  you  port  that  is  improved  by  a  cigarette. 

Then  came  the  son,  and  Hugh's  joy  was  complete. 
A  bit  of  a  dreamer,  a  bit  of  a  poet,  a  bit  of  a  philoso- 
pher, but  with  a  virility  all  his  own ;  a  big  man — a  man 
in  a  thousand,  a  man  I  was  proud  to  call  Friend.  And 
he — at  the  dictates  of  "Kultur" — was  to-morrow  at 
6.35  going  to  expose  himself  to  the  risk  of  death,  in 
order  to  wrest  from  the  Hun  a  small  portion  of  unpre- 
possessing ground.  Truly,  humour  is  not  dead  in  the 
world!  .  .  . 

A  step  outside  broke  the  reel  of  pictures,  and  the 
Sapper  Officer  looked  in.  "I  hear  a  whisper  of  activity 
in  the  dark  and  stilly  morn/'  he  remarked  brightly, 
"Won't  it  be  nice?" 

"Very,"  I  said  sarcastically.    "Are  you  coming?" 

"No,  dear  one.  That's  why  I  thought  it  would  be 
so  nice.  My  opposite  number  and  tireless  companion 
and  helper  to-morrow  morning  will  prance  over  the 
greensward  with  you,  leading  his  merry  crowd  of 
minions,  bristling  with  bowie  knives,  sand-bags,  and 
other  impedimenta." 


THE  DEATH  GRIP  189 

"Oh!  go  to  Hell,"  I  said  crossly.  "I  want  to  write 
a  letter." 

"Cheer  up,  Ginger."  He  dropped  his  bantering  tone. 
'Til  be  up  to  drink  a  glass  of  wine  with  you  to-mor- 
row night  in  the  new  trench.  Tell  Latimer  that  the 
wire  is  all  right — it's  been  thinned  out  and  won't  stop 
him,  and  that  there  are  ladders  for  getting  out  of  the 
trench  on  each  traverse." 

"Have  you  been  working?"  I  asked. 

"Four  hours,  and  got  caught  by  shrapnel  in  the  mid- 
dle. Night-night,  and  good  luck,  old  man." 

He  was  gone ;  and  when  he  had,  I  wished  him  back 
again.  For  the  game  wasn't  new  to  him — he'd  done  it 
before;  and  I  hadn't.  It  tends  to  give  one  confi- 
dence. ... 

It  was  about  four  I  woke  up.  For  a  few  blissful 
moments  I  lay  forgetful ;  then  I  turned  and  saw  Hugh. 
There  was  a  new  candle  in  the  bottle,  and  by  its  flicker 
I  saw  the  glint  in  his  sombre  eyes,  the  clear-cut  line 
of  his  profile.  And  I  remembered.  .  .  . 

I  felt  as  if  something  had  caught  me  by  the  stomach" 
— inside:  a  sinking  feeling,  a  feeling  of  nausea:  and 
for  a  while  I  lay  still.  Outside  in  the  darkness  the  men 
were  rousing  themselves;  now  and  again  a  curse  was 
muttered  as  someone  tripped  over  a  leg  he  didn't  see ; 
and  once  the  Sergeant-Major's  voice  rang  out — "  'Ere, 
strike  a  light  with  them  breakfasts." 


190  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

"Awake,  Ginger  ?"  Hugh  prodded  me  with  his  foot. 
"You'd  better  get  something  inside  you,  and  then  well 
go  round  and  see  that  everything  is  O.K." 

"Have  you  had  any  sleep,  Hugh  ?" 

"No.  I've  been  reading."  He  put  Maeterlinck's 
"Blue  Bird"  on  the  table.  With  his  finger  on  the  title 
he  looked  at  me  musingly,  "Shall  we  find  it  to-day,  I 
wonder?" 

I  have  lingered  perhaps  a  little  long  on  what  is  after 
all  only  the  introduction  to  my  story.  But  it  is  mainly 
for  the  sake  of  Hugh's  wife  that  I  have  written  it  at 
all;  to  show  her  how  he  passed  the  last  few  hours 
before — the  change  came.  Of  what  happened  just 
after  6.35  on  that  morning  I  cannot  profess  to  have 
any  very  clear  idea.  We  went  over  the  parapet  I  re- 
member, and  forward  at  the  double.  For  half  an  hour 
beforehand  a  rain  of  our  shells  had  plastered  the  Ger- 
man trenches  in  front  of  us,  and  during  those  eternal 
thirty  minutes  we  waited  tense.  Hugh  Latimer  alone 
of  all  the  men  I  saw  seemed  absolutely  unconscious  of 
anything  unusual.  Some  of  the  men  were  singing  be- 
low their  breath,  and  one  I  remember  sucked  his  teeth 
with  maddening  persistency.  And  one  and  all  watched 
me  curiously,  speculatively — or  so  it  seemed  to  me. 
Then  we  were  off,  and  of  crossing  No-Man'  s-Land 
I  have  no  recollection.  I  remember  a  man  beside  me 


THE  DEATH  GRIP  191 

falling  with  a  crash  and  nearly  tripping  me  up — and 
then,  at  last,  the  Huns.  I  let  drive  with  my  revolver 
from  the  range  of  a  few  inches  into  the  fat,  bloated 
face  of  a  frightened-looking  man  in  dirty  grey,  and 
as  he  crashed  down  I  remember  shouting,  "There's 
the  Blue  Bird  for  you,  old  dear."  Little  things  like 
that  do  stick.  But  everything  else  is  just  a  blurred 
phantasmagoria  in  my  mind.  And  after  a  while  it 
was  over.  The  trench  was  full  of  still  grey  figures, 
with  here  and  there  a  khaki  one  beside  them.  A  sap- 
per officer  forced  his  way  through  shouting  for  a 
working-party.  We  were  the  flanking  company,  and 
vital  work  had  to  be  done  and  quick.  Barricades 
rigged  up,  communication  trenches  which  now  ran 
to  our  Front  blocked  up,  the  trench  made  to  fire  the 
other  way.  For  we  knew  there  would  be  a  counter- 
attack, and  if  you  fail  to  consolidate  what  you've  won 
you  won't  keep  it  long.  It  was  while  I  slaved  and 
sweated  with  the  men  shifting  sandbags — turning  the 
parados,  or  back  of  the  trench  into  the  new  parapet, 
or  front — that  I  got  word  that  Hugh  was  dead.  I 
hadn't  seen  him  since  the  morning,  and  the  rumour 
passed  along  from  man  to  man. 

"The  Captain's  took  it.     Copped  it  in  the  head. 
Bomb  took  him  in  the  napper." 

But  there  was  no  time  to  stop  and  enquire,  and  with 
my  heart  sick  within  me  I  worked  on.     One  thing  at 


192  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

any  rate ;  it  had  only  been  a  little  show,  but  it  had  been 
successful — the  dear  chap  hadn't  lost  his  life  in  a  fail- 
ure. Then  I  saw  the  doctor  for  a  moment. 

"No,  he's  not  dead,"  he  said,  "but— he's  mighty 
near  it.  You  know  he  practically  ran  the  show  single- 
handed  on  the  left  flank." 

"What  did  he  do?"  I  cried. 

"Do  ?  Why  he  kept  a  Hun  bombing-party  who  were 
working  up  the  trench  at  bay  for  half  an  hour  by  him- 
'self,  which  completely  saved  the  situation,  and  then 
went  out  into  the  open,  when  he  was  relieved,  and 
pulled  in  seven  men  who'd  been  caught  by  a  machine- 
gun.  It  was  while  he  was  getting  the  last  one  that  a 
bomb  exploded  almost  on  his  head.  Why  he  wasn't 
killed  on  the  spot,  I  simply  can't  conceive."  And  the 
doctor  was  gone. 

But  strange  things  happen,  and  the  hand  of  Death 
is  ever  capricious.  Was  it  not  only  the  other  day  that 
we  exploded  a  mine,  and  sailing  through  the  air  there 
came  a  Hun — a  whole  complete  Hun.  Stunned  and 
winded  he  fell  on  the  parapet  of  our  trench,  and  hav- 
ing been  pulled  in  and  revived,  at  last  sat  up.  "Coot," 
he  murmured ;  "I  hof  long  vanted  to  surrender.  .  .  " 

Hugh  Latimer  was  not  dead — that  was  the  great 
outstanding  fact;  though  had  I  known  the  writing  in 
the  roll  of  Fate,  I  would  have  wished  a  thousand  times 


THE  DEATH  GRIP  193 

that  the  miracle  had  not  happened.  There  are  worse 
things  than  death.  .  .  . 

And  now  I  bring  the  first  part  of  my  tragedy  to  a 
halt;  the  beginning  as  I  called  it — that  part  which 
Hugh's  wife  did  not  know.  She,  with  all  the  world, 
saw  the  announcement  in  the  paper,  the  announcement 
— bald  and  official  of  the  deed  for  which  he  won  his 
V.C.  It  was  much  as  the  doctor  described  it  to  me. 
She,  with  all  the  world,  saw  his  name  in  the  Casualty 
List  as  wounded ;  and  on  receipt  of  a  telegram  from 
the  War  Office,  she  crossed  to  France  in  fear  and 
trembling — for  the  wire  did  not  mince  words ;  his  con- 
dition was  very  critical.  He  did  not  know  her — he  was 
quite  unconscious,  and  had  been  so  for  days.  That 
night  they  were  trephining,  and  there  was  just  a 
hope.  .  .  . 

The  next  morning  Hugh  knew  his  wife. 

For  the  next  three  months  I  did  not  see  him.  The 
battalion  was  still  up,  and  I  got  no  chance  of  going 
down  to  'Boulogne.  He  didn't  stay  there  long,  but,  fol- 
lowing the  ordinary  routine  of  the  R.A.M.C.,  went 
back  to  England  in  a  hospital  ship,  and  into  a  home  in 
London.  Sir  William  Cremer,  the  eminent  brain  spe- 
cialist, who  had  operated  on  him,  and  been  particularly 
interested  in  his  case,  kept  him  under  his  eye  for  a 


194  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

couple  of  months,  and  then  he  went  to  his  own  home 
to  recuperate. 

All  this  and  a  lot  more  besides  I  got  in  letters  from 
his  wife.  The  King  himself  had  graciously  come 
round  and  presented  him  with  the  cross — and  she  was 
simply  brimming  over  with  happiness,  dear  soul.  He 
was  ever  so  much  better,  and  very  cheerful;  and  Sir 
William  was  a  perfect  dear;  and  he'd  actually  taken 
out  six  ounces  of  brain  during  the  operation,  and 
wasn't  it  wonderful.  Also  the  son  and  heir  grew  more 
perfect  every  day.  Which  news,  needless  to  say, 
cheered  me  immensely. 

Then  came  the  first  premonition  of  something 
wrong.  For  a  fortnight  I'd  not  heard  from  her,  and 
then  I  got  a  letter  which  wasn't  quite  so  cheerful. 

"...  Hugh  doesn't  seem  able  to  sleep."  So  ran 
part  of  it.  "He  is  terribly  restless,  and  at  times  dread- 
fully irritable.  He  doesn't  seem  to  have  any  pain  in 
his  head,  which  is  a  comfort.  But  I'm  not  quite  easy 
about  him,  Ginger.  The  other  evening  I  was  sitting 
opposite  to  him  in  the  study,  and  suddenly  something 
compelled  me  to  look  at  him.  I  have  never  seen  any- 
thing like  the  look  in  his  eyes.  He  was  staring  at  the 
fire,  and  his  right  hand  was  opening  and  shutting  like 
a  bird's  talon.  I  was  terrified  for  a  moment,  and  then 
I  forced  myself  to  speak  calmly. 

"  'Why  this  ferocious  expression,  old  boy/  I  said, 


THE  DEATH  GRIP  195 

with  a  laugh.  For  a  moment  he  did  not  answer,  but 
his  eyes  left  the  fire,  and  travelled  slowly  round  till 
they  met  mine.  I  never  knew  what  that  phrase  meant 
till  then;  it  always  struck  me  as  a  sort  of  author's 
license.  But  that  evening  I  felt  them  coming,  and  I 
could  have  screamed.  He  gazed  at  me  in  silence  and 
then  at  last  he  spoke. 

"  'Have  you  ever  heard  of  the  Death  Grip?  Some 
day  I'll  tell  you  about  it/  Then  he  looked  away,  and 
I  made  an  excuse  to  go  out  of  the  room,  for  I  was 
shaking  with  fright.  It  was  so  utterly  unlike  Hugh 
to  make  a  silly  remark  like  that.  When  I  came  back 
later,  he  was  perfectly  calm  and  his  own  self  again. 
Moreover,  he  seemed  to  have  completely  forgotten  the 
incident,  because  he  apologised  for  having  been  asleep. 

"I  wanted  Sir  William  to  come  down  and  see  him ; 
or  else  for  us  to  go  up  to  town,  as  I  expect  Sir  Wil- 
liam is  far  too  busy.  But  Hugh  wouldn't  hear  of  it, 
and  got  quite  angry — so  I  didn't  press  the  matter. 
But  I'm  worried,  Ginger.  .  .  ." 

I  read  this  part  of  the  letter  to  our  doctor.  We  were 
having  an  omelette  of  huit-ceufs,  and  une  bouteille  de 
vin  rouge  in  a  little  estaminet  way  back,  I  remember ; 
and  I  asked  him  what  he  thought. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  he  said,  "frankly  it's  impossible 
to  say.  You  know  what  women  are;  and  that  letter 
may  give  quite  a  false  impression  of  what  really  took 


196  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

place.  You  see  what  I  mean :  in  her  anxiety  she  may 
have  exaggerated  some  jocular  remark.  She's  had 
a  very  wearing  time,  and  her  own  nerves  are  proba- 
bly a  bit  on  edge.  But "  he  paused  and  leaned 

back.  "Encore  du  vin,  s'il  vous  plait,  mam'selle.  But, 
Ginger,  it's  no  good  pretending,  there  may  be  a  very 
much  more  sinister  meaning  behind  it  all.  The  brain 
is  a  most  complex  organisation,  and  even  such  men 
as  Cremer  are  only  standing  on  the  threshold  of 
knowledge  with  regard  to  it.  They  know  a  lot — but 
how  much  more  there  is  to  learn!  Latimer,  as  you 
know,  owes  his  life  practically  to  a  miracle.  Not  once 
in  a  thousand  times  would  a  man  escape  instant  death 
under  such  circumstances.  A  great  deal  of  brain  mat- 
ter was  exposed,  and  subsequently  removed  at  Bou- 
logne by  Sir  William,  when  he  trephined.  And  it  is 
possible  that  some  radical  alteration  has  taken  place 
in  Hugh  Latimer's  character,  soul — whatever  you 
choose  to  call  that  part  of  a  man  which  controls  his 
life — as  a  result  of  the  operation.  If  what  Mrs. 
Latimer  says  is  the  truth — and  when  I  say  that  I  mean 
if  what  she  says  is  to  be  relied  on  as  a  cold,  bald  state- 
ment of  what  happened — then  I  am  bound  to  say  that 
I  think  the  matter  is  very  serious  indeed." 

"God  Almighty!"  I  cried,  "do  you  mean  to  say  that 
you  think  there  is  a  chance  of  Hugh  going  mad  ?" 

"To  be  perfectly  frank,  I  do;  always  granted  that 


THE  DEATH  GRIP  197 

that  letter  is  reliable.  I  consider  it  vital  that  whether 
he  wishes  to  or  whether  he  doesn't,  Sir  William 
Cremer  should  be  consulted.  And — at  once."  The 
doctor  emphasised  his  words  with  his  fist  on  the  table. 

"Great  Scott!  Doc,"  I  muttered.  "Do  you  really 
think  there  is  danger  ?" 

"I  don't  know  enough  of  the  case  to  say  that.  But 
I  do  know  something  about  the  brain,  enough  to  say 
that  there  might  be  not  only  danger,  but  hideous  dan- 
ger, to  everyone  in  the  house/'  He  was  silent  for  a 
bit  and  then  rapped  out.  "Does  Mrs.  Latimer  share 
the  same  room  as  her  husband?" 

"I  really  don't  know,"  I  answered.    "I  imagine  so." 

"Well,  I  don't  know  how  well  you  know  her;  but 
until  Sir  William  gives  a  definite  opinion,  if  I  knew  her 
well  enough,  I  would  strongly  advise  her  to  sleep  in 
another  room — and  lock  the  door." 

"Good  God!  you  think  .  .  ." 

"Look  here,  Ginger,  what's  the  good  of  beating 
about  the  bush.  It  is  possible — I  won't  say  probable — 
that  Hugh  Latimer  is  on  the  road  to  becoming  a  homi- 
cidal maniac.  And  if,  by  any  chance,  that  assump- 
tion is  correct,  the  most  hideous  tragedy  might  happen 
at  any  moment.  Mam'selle,  1'addition  s'il  vous  plait. 
You're  going  on  leave  shortly,  aren't  you  ?" 

"In  two  days,"  I  answered. 

"Well,  go  down  and  see  for  yourself;  it  won't  re- 


198  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

quire  a  doctor  to  notice  the  symptoms.  And  if  what 
I  fear  is  correct,  track  out  Cremer  in  his  lair — find 
him  somehow  and  find  him  quickly." 

We  walked  up  the  road  together,  and  my  glance  fell 
on  the  plot  of  ground  on  the  right,  covered  so  thickly 
with  little  wooden  crosses.  As  I  looked  away  the  doc- 
tor's eyes  and  mine  met.  And  there  was  the  same 
thought  in  both  our  minds. 

Three  days  later  I  was  in  Hugh's  house.  His  wife 
met  me  at  the  station,  and  before  we  got  into  the  car 
my  heart  sank.  I  knew  something  was  wrong. 

"How  is  he  ?"  I  asked,  as  we  swung  out  of  the  gates. 

"Oh!  Ginger,"  she  said.  "I'm  frightened— fright- 
ened to  death." 

"What  is  it,  lady,"  I  cried.  "Has  he  been  looking 
at  you  like  that  again,  the  way  you  described  in  the 
letter?" 

"Yes— it's  getting  more  frequent.  And  at  nights — - 
oh !  my  God !  it's  awful.  Poor  old  Hugh." 

She  broke  down  at  that,  while  I  noticed  that  her 
hands  were  all  trembling,  and  that  dark  shadows  were 
round  her  eyes. 

"Tell  me  about  it,"  I  said,  "for  we  must  do  some- 
thing." 

She  pulled  herself  together,  and  called  through  the 


THE  DEATH  GRIP  199 

speaking-tube  to  the  chauffeur.  "Go  a  little  way  round,, 
Jervis.  I  don't  want  to  get  in  till  tea-time. " 

Then  she  turned  to  me.  "Since  his  operation  I've 
been  using  another  room."  The  doctor's  words 
flashed  into  my  mind.  "Sir  William  thought  it  essen- 
tial that  he  should  have  really  long  undisturbed  nights, 
and  I'm  such  a  light  sleeper.  For  a  few  weeks  every- 
thing panned  out  splendidly.  He  seemed  to  get  bet- 
ter and  stronger,  and  he  was  just  the  same  dear  old 
Hugh  he's  always  been.  Then  gradually  the  restless- 
ness started;  he  couldn't  sleep,  he  became  irritable, — 
and  the  one  thing  which  made  him  most  irritable  of 
all  was  any  suggestion  that  he  wasn't  going  on  all 
right;  or  any  hint  even  that  he  should  see  a  doctor. 
Then  came  the  incident  I  wrote  to  you  about.  Since 
that  evening  I've  often  caught  the  same  look  in  his 
eye."  She  shuddered,  and  again  I  noticed  the  quiver 
in  her  hands,  but  she  quickly  controlled  herself.  "Last 
night,  I  woke  up  suddenly.  It  must  have  been  about 
three,  for  it  was  pitch  dark,  and  I  think  I'd  been  asleep 
some  hours.  I  don't  know  what  woke  me;  but  in  an 
instant  I  knew  there  was  someone  in  the  room.  I  lay 
trembling  with  fright,  and  suddenly  out  of  the  dark- 
ness came  a  hideous  chuckle.  It  was  the  most  awful, 
diabolical  noise  I've  ever  heard.  Then  I  heard  his 
voice. 

"He  was  muttering,  and  all  I  could  catch  were  the 


200  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

words  'Death-Grip.'  I  nearly  fainted  with  terror, 
but  forced  myself  to  keep  consciousness.  How  long 
he  stood  there  I  don't  know,  but  after  an  eternity  it 
seemed,  I  heard  the  door  open  and  shut.  I  heard 
him  cross  the  passage,  and  go  into  his  own  room. 
Then  there  was  silence.  I  forced  myself  to  move;  I 
switched  on  the  light,  and  locked  the  door.  And 
when  dawn  came  in  through  the  windows,  I  was  still 
sitting  in  a  chair  sobbing,  shaking  like  a  terrified  child. 

"This  morning  he  was  perfectly  normal,  and  just 
as  cheerful  and  loving  as  he'd  ever  been.  Oh !  Ginger, 
what  am  I  to  do?"  She  broke  down  and  cried  help- 
lessly. 

"You  poor  kid,"  I  said;  "what  an  awful  experi- 
ence! You  must  lock  your  door  to-night,  and  to- 
morrow, with  or  without  Hugh's  knowledge,  I  shall  go 
up  to  see  Cremer." 

"You  don't  think ;  oh !  it  couldn't  be  true  that  Hugh, 

my  Hugh,  is  going "  She  wouldn't  say  the  word, 

but  just  gazed  at  me  fearfully  through  her  tears. 

"Hush,  my  lady,"  I  said  quietly.  "The  brain  is 
a  funny  thing;  perhaps  there  is  some  pressure  some- 
where which  Sir  William  will  be  able  to  remove." 

"Why,  of  course  that's  it.  I'm  tired,  stupid — it's 
made  me  exaggerate  things.  It  will  mean  another 
operation,  that's  all.  Wasn't  it  splendid  about  his 
getting  the  V.C. ;  and  the  King,  so  gracious,  so 


THE  DEATH  GRIP  201 

kind.  .  .  ."     She  talked  bravely  on,  and  I  tried  to 
help  her. 

But  suppose  there  wasn't  any  pressure;  suppose 
there  was  nothing  to  remove;  suppose.  .  .  .  And  in 
my  mind  I  saw  the  plot  with  the  little  wooden  crosses ; 
in  my  mind  I  heard  the  express  for  somewhere  boom- 
ing sullenly  overhead.  And  I  wondered  .  .  .  shud- 
dered. 

Hugh  met  us  at  the  door;  dear  old  Hugh,  looking 
as  well  as  he  ever  did. 

"Splendid,  Ginger,  old  man !  So  glad  you  managed 
the  leave  all  right." 

"Not  a  hitch,  Hugh.     You're  looking  very  fit." 

"I  am.  Fit  as  a  flea.  You  ask  Elsie  what  she 
thinks." 

His  wife  smiled.  "You're  just  wonderful,  old  boy, 
except  for  your  sleeplessness  at  night.  I  want  him 
to  see  Sir  William  Cremer,  Ginger,  but  he  doesn't 
think  it  worth  while." 

"I  don't,"  said  Hugh  shortly.  "Damn  that  old 
sawbones." 

In  another  man  the  remark  would  have  passed  un- 
noticed; but  the  chauffeur  was  there,  and  a  maid, 
and  his  wife — and  the  expression  was  quite  foreign  to 
Hugh. 

But  I  am  bound  to  say  that  except  for  that  one 


202  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

trifling  thing  I  noticed  absolutely  nothing  peculiar 
about  him  all  the  evening.  At  dinner  he  was  per- 
fectly normal ;  quite  charming — his  own  brilliant  self. 
When  he  was  in  the  mood,  I  have  seldom  heard  his 
equal  as  a  conversationalist,  and  that  night  he  was 
at  the  top  of  his  form.  I  almost  managed  to  persuade 
myself  that  my  fears  were  groundless.  .  .  . 

"I  want  to  have  a  buck  with  Ginger,  dear/'  he 
said  to  his  wife  after  dinner  was  over.  "A  talk  over 
the  smells  and  joys  of  Flanders." 

"But  I  should  like  to  hear,"  she  answered.  "It's 
so  hard  to  get  you  men  to  talk." 

"I  don't  think  you  would  like  to  hear,  my  dear." 
His  tone  was  quite  normal,  but  there  was  a  strange 
note  of  insistence  in  it.  "It's  shop,  and  will  bore  you 
dreadfully."  He  still  stood  by  the  door  waiting  for 
her  to  pass  through.  After  a  moment's  hesitation  she 
went,  and  Hugh  closed  the  door  after  her.  What  sug- 
gested the  analogy  to  my  mind  I  cannot  say,  but  the 
way  in  which  he  performed  the  simple  act  of  closing 
the  door  seemed  to  be  the  opening  rite  of  some  cere- 
mony. Thus  could  I  picture  a  morphomaniac  shut- 
ting himself  in  from  prying  gaze,  before  abandoning 
himself  to  his  vice;  the  drunkard,  at  last  alone,  re- 
turning gloatingly  to  his  bottle.  Perhaps  my  percep- 
tions were  quickened,  but  it  seemed  to  me  that  Hugh 
came  back  to  me  as  if  I  were  his  colleague  in  some 


THE  DEATH  GRIP  203 

guilty  secret — as  if  his  wife  were  alien  to  his  thoughts, 
and  now  that  she  was  gone,  we  could  talk.  .  .  .  His 
first  words  proved  I  was  right. 

"Now  we  can  talk,  Ginger,"  he  remarked.  "These 
women  don't  understand."  He  pushed  the  port 
towards  me. 

"Understand  what?"     I  was  watching  him  closely. 

"Life,  my  boy,  the  life.  The  life  of  an  eye  for  an 
eye  and  a  tooth  for  a  tooth.  Gad!  it  was  a  great 
day  that,  Ginger."  His  eyes  were  fixed  on  me,  and 
for  the  first  time  I  noticed  the  red  in  them,  and  a 
peculiar  twitch  in  the  lids. 

"Did  you  find  the  'Blue  Bird?"  I  asked  quietly. 

"Find  it?"  He  laughed — and  it  was  not  a  pleasant 
laugh.  "I  used  to  think  it  lay  in  books,  in  art,  in 
music."  Again  he  gave  way  to  a  fit  of  devilish  mirth. 
"What  damned  fools  we  are,  old  man,  what  damned 
fools.  But  you  mustn't  tell  her."  He  leaned  over 
the  table  and  spoke  confidentially.  "She'd  never  un- 
derstand ;  that's  why  I  got  rid  of  her."  He  lifted  his 
glass  to  the  light,  looking  at  it  as  a  connoisseur  looks 
at  a  rare  vintage,  while  all  the  time  a  strange  smile — a 
cruel  smile — hovered  round  his  lips.  "Music — art," 
his  voice  was  full  of  scorn.  "Only  we  know  better. 
Did  I  ever  tell  you  about  that  grip  I  learned  in  Sumatra 
—the  Death  Grip?" 

He  suddenly  fired  the  question  at  me,  and  for  a 


204  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

moment  I  did  not  answer.  All  my  fears  were  rushing 
back  into  my  mind  with  renewed  strength ;  it  was  not 
so  much  the  question  as  the  tone — and  the  eyes  of  the 
speaker. 

"No,  never."    I  lit  a  cigarette  with  elaborate  care. 

"Ah!  Someday  I  must  show  you.  You  take  a 
man's  throat  in  your  right  hand,  and  you  put  your 
left  behind  his  neck — like  that."  His  hands  were 
curved  in  front  of  him — curved  as  if  a  man's  throat 
was  in  them.  "Then  you  press  and  press  with  the 
two  thumbs — like  that;  with  the  right  thumb  on  a 
certain  muscle  in  the  neck,  and  the  left  on  an  artery 
under  the  ear;  and  you  go  on  pressing,  until — until 
there's  no  need  to  press  any  longer.  It's  wonderful." 
I  can't  hope  to  give  any  idea  of  the  dreadful  gloating 
tone  in  his  voice. 

"I  got  a  Prussian  officer  like  that,  that  day,"  he 
went  on  after  a  moment.  "I  saw  his  dirty  grey  face 
close  to  mine,  and  I  got  my  hands  on  his  throat.  I'd 
forgotten  the  exact  position  for  the  grip,  and  then 
suddenly  I  remembered  it.  I  squeezed  and  squeezed 
— and,  Ginger,  the  grip  was  right.  I  squeezed  his  lifer 
out  in  ten  seconds."  His  voice  rose  to  a  shout. 

"Steady,  Hugh,"  I  cried.  "You'll  be  frightening 
Elsie." 

"Quite  right,"  he  answered;  "that  would  never 
do.  I  haven't  told  her  that  little  incident — she 


THE  DEATH  GRIP  205 

wouldn't  understand.  But  I'm  going  to  show  Tier  the 
grip  one  of  these  days.  As  a  soldier's  wife,  I  think 
it's  a  thing  she  ought  to  know." 

He  relapsed  into  silence,  apparently  quite  calm, 
though  his  eyelids  still  twitched,  while  I  watched  him 
covertly  from  time  to  time.  In  my  mind  now  there 
was  no  shadow  of  doubt  that  the  doctor's  fears  were 
justified;  I  knew  that  Hugh  Latimer  was  insane.  That 
his  loss  of  mental  balance  was  periodical  and  not  per- 
manent was  not  the  point;  layman  though  I  was,  I 
could  realise  the  danger  to  everyone  in  the  house.  At 
the  moment  the  tragedy  of  the  case  hardly  struck  me ; 
I  could  only  think  of  the  look  on  his  face,  the  gloating, 
watching  look — and  Elsie  and  the  boy.  .  .  . 

At  half -past  nine  he  went  to  bed,  and  I  had  a  few 
words  with  his  wife. 

"Lock  your  door  to-night,"  I  said  insistently,  "as 
you  value  everything,  lock  your  door.  I  am  going  to 
see  Cremer  to-morrow." 

"What's  he  been  saying?"  she  asked,  and  her  lips 
were  white.  "I  heard  him  shouting  once." 

"Enough  to  make  me  tell  you  to  lock  your  door," 
I  said  as  lightly  as  I  could.  "Elsie,  you've  got  to  be 
brave ;  something  has  gone  wrong  with  poor  old  Hugh 
for  the  time,  and  until  he's  put  right  again,  there  are 
moments  when  he's  not  responsible  for  his  actions. 
Don't  be  uneasy;  I  shall  be  on  hand  to-night." 


206  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

"I  shan't  be  uneasy,"  she  answered,  and  then  she 
turned  away,  and  I  saw  her  shoulders  shaking.  "My 
Hugh — my  poor  old  man."  I  caught  the  whispered 
words,  and  she  was  gone. 

I  suppose  it  was  about  two  that  I  woke  with  a  start. 
I  had  meant  to  keep  awake  the  whole  night,  and  with 
that  idea  I  had  not  undressed,  but,  sitting  in  a  chair 
before  the  fire,  had  tried  to  keep  myself  awake  with 
a  book.  But  the  journey  from  France  had  made  me 
sleepy,  and  the  book  had  slipped  to  the  floor,  as  has 
been  known  to  happen  before.  The  light  was  still 
on,  though  the  fire  had  burned  low;  and  I  was 
cramped  and  stiff.  For  a  moment  I  sat  listening  in- 
tently— every  faculty  awake;  and  then  I  heard  a  door 
gently  close,  and  a  step  in  the  passage.  I  switched 
off  the  light  and  listened. 

Instinctively,  I  knew  the  crisis  had  come,  and  with 
the  need  for  action  I  became  perfectly  cool.  Soft 
footsteps,  like  a  man  walking  in  his  socks,  came  dis- 
tinctly through  the  door  which  I  had  left  ajar — once 
a  board  creaked.  And  after  that  sharp  ominous  crack 
there  was  silence  for  a  space;  the  nocturnal  walker 
was  cautious,  cautious  with  the  devilish  cunning  of 
the  madman. 

It  seemed  to  me  an  eternity  as  I  listened — straining 
to  hear  in  the  silent  house — then  once  again  there 


THE  DEATH  GRIP  207 

came  the  soft  pad-pad  of  stockinged  feet;  nearer  and 
nearer  till  they  halted  outside  my  door.  I  could  hear 
the  heavy  breathing  of  someone  outside,  and  then 
stealthily  my  door  was  pushed  open.  In  the  dim  light 
which  filtered  in  from  the  passage  Hugh's  figure  was 
framed  in  the  doorway.  With  many  pauses  and  very 
cautious  steps  he  moved  to  the  bed,  while  I  pressed 
against  the  wall  watching  him. 

His  hands  wandered  over  the  pillows,  and  then  he 
muttered  to  himself.  "Old  Ginger — I  suppose  he 
hasn't  come  to  bed  yet.  And  I  wanted  to  show  him 
that  little  grip — that  little  death-grip."  He  chuckled 
horribly.  "Never  mind — Elsie,  dear  little  Elsie;  I 
will  show  her  first.  Though  she  won't  understand 
so  well — only  Ginger  would  really  understand." 

He  moved  to  the  door,  and  once  again  the  slow  pad- 
ding of  his  feet  sounded  in  the  passage;  while  he  still 
muttered,  though  I  could  not  hear  what  he  said.  Then 
he  came  to  his  wife's  door  and  cautiously  turned  the 
handle.  .  .  . 

What  happened  then  happened  quickly.  He  realised 
quickly  that  it  was  locked,  and  this  seemed  to  infuriate 
him.  He  gave  an  inarticulate  shout,  and  rattled  the 
door  violently ;  then  he  drew  back  to  the  other  side  of 
the  passage  and  prepared  to  charge  it.  And  at  that 
moment  we  closed. 

I  had  followed  him  out  of  my  room,  and,  knowing 


208  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

myself  to  be  far  stronger  than  him,  I  threw  myself 
on  him  without  a  thought.  I  hadn't  reckoned  on  the 
strength  of  a  madman,  and  for  two  minutes  he  threw 
me  about  as  if  I  were  a  child.  We  struggled  and 
fought,  while  frightened  maids  wrung  their  hands — 
and  a  white-faced  woman  watched  with  tearless  eyes. 
And  at  last  I  won ;  when  his  temporary  strength  gave 
out,  he  was  as  weak  as  a  child.  Poor  old  Hugh! 
Poor  old  chap!  .  .  . 

Sir  William  Cremer  came  down  the  next  day,  and 
to  him  I  told  everything.  He  made  all  the  necessary 
wretched  arrangements,  and  the  dear  fellow  was  taken 
away — seemingly  quite  sane — and  telling  Elsie  he'd  be 
back  soon. 

"They  say  I  need  a  change,  old  dear,  and  this  old 
tyrant  says  I've  been  restless  at  night."  He  had  his 
hand  on  Sir  William's  shoulder  as  he  spoke,  while  the 
car  was  waiting  at  the  door. 

"Jove!  little  girl — you  do  look  a  bit  washed  out. 
Have  I  been  worrying  you  ?" 

"Of  course  not,  old  man."  Her  voice  was  perfectly 
steady. 

"There  you  are,  Sir  William."  He  turned  trium- 
phantly to  the  doctor.  "Still  perhaps  you're  right, 
Where's  the  young  rascal  ?  Give  me  a  kiss,  you  scamp 
— and  look  after  your  mother  while  I'm  away.  I'll 


THE  DEATH  GRIP  209 

be  back  soon."  He  went  down  the  steps  and  into  the 
car. 

"And  very  likely  he  will,  Mrs.  Latimer.  Keep  your 
spirits  up  and  never  despair."  Sir  William  patted  her 
shoulder  paternally,  but  over  her  bent  head  I  saw  his 
eyes. 

"God  knows,"  he  said  reverently  to  me  as  he  fol- 
lowed Hugh.  "The  brain  is  such  a  wonderful  thing; 
just  a  tiny  speck  and  a  genius  becomes  a  madman. 
God  knows." 

Later  on  I  too  went  away,  carrying  in  my  mind  the 
picture  of  a  girl — she  was  no  more — holding  a  little 
bronze  cross  in  front  of  a  laughing  baby — the  cross 
on  which  is  written,  "For  Valour."  And  once  again 
my  mind  went  back  to  that  little  plot  in  Flanders 
covered  with  wooden  crosses. 


CHAPTER   VIII 

JAMES    HENRY 

JAMES  HENRY  was  the  sole  remaining  son  of  his 
mother,  and  she  was  a  widow.  His  father,  some 
twelve  months  previously,  had  inadvertently  encoun- 
tered a  motor-car  travelling-  at  great  speed,  and  had 
forthwith  been  laid  to  rest.  His  sisters — whom  James 
Henry  affected  to  despise — had  long  since  left  the 
parental  roof  and  gone  to  seek  their  Fortunes  in  the 
great  world;  while  his  brothers  had  in  all  cases  died 
violent  deaths,  following  in  the  steps  of  their  lamented 
father.  In  fact,  as  I  said,  James  Henry  was  alone 
in  the  world  saving  only  for  his  mother :  and  as  she'd 
married  again  since  his  father's  death  he  felt  that  his 
responsibility  so  far  as  she  was  concerned  was  at  an 
end.  In  fact,  he  frequently  cut  her  when  he  met  her 
about  the  house. 

Relations  had  become  particularly  strained  after 
this  second  matrimonial  venture.  An  aristocrat  of  the 
most  unbending  description  himself,  he  had  been  away 
during  the  period  of  her  courtship — otherwise,  no 
doubt,  he  would  have  protected  his  father's  stainless 

211 


212  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

escutcheon.  As  it  was,  he  never  quite  recovered  from 
the  shock. 

It  was  at  breakfast  one  morning  that  he  heard  the 
news.  Lady  Monica  told  him  as  she  handed  him  his 
tea.  "James  Henry,"  she  remarked  reproachfully, 
"your  mother  is  a  naughty  woman."  True  to  his 
aristocratic  principle  of  stoical  calm  he  continued  to 
consume  his  morning  beverage.  There  were  times 
when  the  mention  of  his  mother  bored  him  to  extinc- 
tion. "A  very  naughty  woman,"  she  continued. 
"Dad" — she  addressed  a  man  who  had  just  come  into 
the  room — "it's  occurred." 

"What— have  they  come?" 

"Yes— last  night.    Five." 

"Are  they  good  ones?" 

Lady  Alice  laughed.  "I  was  just  telling  James 
Henry  what  I  thought  of  his  Family  when  you  came 
in.  I'm  afraid  Harriet  Emily  is  incorrigible." 

"Look  at  James !"  exclaimed  the  Earl — "he's  spilled 
his  tea  all  over  the  carpet."  He  was  inspecting  the 
dishes  on  the  sideboard  as  he  spoke. 

"He  always  does.  His  whiskers  dribble.  Jervis 
tells  me  that  he  thinks  Harriet  Emily  must  have — er — 
flirted  with  a  most  undesirable  acquaintance." 

"Oh!  has  she?"  Her  father  opened  the  morning 
paper  and  started  to  enjoy  his  breakfast.  "We  must 
drown  'em,  my  dear,  drown Hullo !  the  Russians 


JAMES  HENRY  213 

have  crossed  the "  It  sounded  like  an  explosion 

in  a  soda-water  factory,  and  James  Henry  protested. 

"Quite  right,  Henry.  He  oughtn't  to  do  it  at  break- 
fast. It  doesn't  really  make  any  one  any  happier. 
Did  you  know  about  your  mother  ?  Now  don't  gobble 
your  food."  Lady  Monica  held  up  an  admonishing 
finger.  "Four  of  your  brothers  and  sisters  are  more 
or  less  respectable,  James,  but  there's  one — there's 
one  that  is  distinctly  reminiscent  of  a  dachshund.  Oh ! 
'Arriet,  'Arriet — I'm  ashamed  of  you." 

James  Henry  sneezed  heavily  and  got  down  from 
the  table.  Always  a  perfect  gentleman,  he  picked  up 
the  crumbs  round  his  chair,  and  even  went  so  far  as  ta 
salvage  a  large  piece  of  sausage  skin  which  had  slipped 
on  to  the  floor.  Then,  full  of  rectitude  and  outwardly 
unconcerned,  he  retired  to  a  corner  behind  a  cupboard 
and  earnestly  contemplated  a  little  hole  in  the  floor. 

Outwardly  calm — yes:  that  at  least  was  due  to  the 
memory  of  his  blue-blooded  father.  But  inwardly, 
he  seethed.  With  his  head  on  one  side  he  alternately 
sniffed  and  blew  as  he  had  done  regularly  every  morn- 
ing for  the  past  two  months.  His  father's  wife  the 
mother  of  a  sausage-dog!  Incredible!  It  must  have 
been  that  miserable  fat  beast  who  lived  at  the  Pig  and 
Whistle.  The  insolence — the  inconceivable  imperti- 
nence of  such  an  unsightly,  corpulent  traducer  daring 
to  ally  himself  with  One  of  the  Fox  Terriers.  He 


214  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

growled  slightly  in  his  disgust,  and  three  mice  inside 
the  wall  laughed  gently.  But — still,  the  girls  are  ever 
frail.  He  blushed  slightly  at  some  recollection,  and 
realised  that  he  must  make  allowances.  But  a  sausage 
dog!  Great  Heavens! 

"James — avangons,  mon  brave."  Lady  Monica  was 
standing  in  the  window.  "We  will  hie  us  to  the 
village.  Dad,  don't  forget  that  our  branch  of  the  Fed- 
erated Association  of  Women  War  Workers  are  drill- 
ing here  this  afternoon." 

"Good  Heavens !  my  dear  girl — is  it  ?"  Her  father 
gazed  at  her  in  alarm.  "I  think — er — I  think  I  shall 
have  to — er — run  up  to  Town — er — this  afternoon." 

"I  thought  you'd  have  to,  old  dear.  In  fact,  I've 
ordered  the  car  for  you.  Come  along,  Henry — we 
must  go  and  get  a  boy  scout  to  be  bandaged." 

James  Henry  gave  one  last  violently  facial  con- 
tortion at  the  entrance  of  the  mouse's  lair,  and  rose 
majestically  to  his  feet.  If  she  wanted  to  go  out,  he 
fully  realised  that  he  must  go  with  her:  Emily  would 
have  to  wait.  He  would  go  round  later  and  see  his 
poor  misguided  mother  and  reason  with  her;  but  just 
at  present  the  girl  was  his  principal  duty.  She  gen- 
erally asked  his  advice  on  various  things  when  thej 
went  for  a  walk,  and  the  least  he  could  do  was  to 
pretend  to  be  interested  at  any  rate. 

Apparently  this  morning  she  was  in  need  of  much 


JAMES  HENRY  215 

counsel  and  help.  Having  arrived  at  a  clearing  in 
the  wood,  on  the  way  to  the  village,  she  sat  down  on 
the  fallen  trunk  of  a  tree,  and  addressed  him. 

"James — what  am  I  to  do?  Derek  is  coming  this 
afternoon  before  he  goes  back  to  France.  What  shall 
I  tell  him,  Henry — what  shall  I  tell  him?  Because 
I  know  he'll  ask  me  again.  Thank  you,  old  man,  but 
you're  not  very  helpful,  and  I'd  much  sooner  you  kept 
it  yourself." 

Disgustedly  James  Henry  removed  the  carcase  of 
a  field  mouse  he  had  just  procured,  and  resigned  him- 
self to  the  inevitable. 

"I'm  fond  of  him;  I  like  him — in  fact  at  times 
more  than  like  him.  But  is  it  the  real  thing?  Now 
what  do  you  think,  James  Henry? — tell  me  all  that 
is  in  your  mind.  Ought  I " 

It  was  then  that  he  gave  his  celebrated  rendering 
of  a  young  typhoon,  owing  to  the  presence  of  a  foreign 
substance — to  wit,  a  fly — in  a  ticklish  spot  on  his  nose. 

"You  think  that,  do  you?  Well,  perhaps  you're 
right.  Come  on,  my  lad,  we  must  obtain  the  victim 
for  this  afternoon.  I  wonder  if  those  little  boys  like 
it?  To  do  some  good  and  kindly  action  each  day — 
that's  their  motto,  James.  And  as  one  person  to  an- 
other you  must  admit  that  to  be  revived  from  drown- 
ing, resuscitated  from  fainting,  brought  to  from  an 
epileptic  fit,  and  have  two  knees,  an  ankle,  and  a  collar- 


216  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

bone  set  at  the  same  time  is  some  good  action  even 
for  a  boy  scout. 

It  was  not  until  after  lunch  that  James  Henry  paid 
his  promised  call  on  his  mother.  Maturer  considera- 
tions had  but  strengthened  his  resolve  to  make  allow- 
ances. After  all,  these  things  do  happen  in  the  best 
families.  He  was,  indeed,  prepared  to  be  magnani- 
mous and  forgive;  he  was  even  prepared  to  be  inter- 
ested; the  only  thing  he  wasn't  prepared  for  was  the 
nasty  bite  he  got  on  his  ear.  That  settled  it.  It  was 
then  that  he  finally  washed  his  hands  of  his  undutiful 
parent.  As  he  told  her,  he  felt  more  sorrow  than 
anger;  he  should  have  realised  that  anyone  who  could 
have  dealings  with  a  sausage-hound  must  be  dead  to 
all  sense  of  decency — and  that  the  only  thing  he  asked 
was  that  in  the  future  she  would  conceal  the  fact  that 
they  were  related. 

Then  he  left  her — and  trotting  round  to  the  front 
of  the  house,  found  great  activity  in  progress  on  the 
lawn. 

"Good  Heavens!  James  Henry,  do  they  often  do 
this?"  With  a  shout  of  joy  he  recognised  the  speaker. 
And  having  told  him  about  Harriet,  and  blown  heavily 
at  a  passing  spider  and  then  trodden  on  it,  he  sat 
down  beside  the  soldier  on  the  steps.  The  game  on 
the  lawn  at  first  sight  looked  dull;  and  he  only  fa- 


JAMES  HENRY  217 

voured  it  with  a  perfunctory  glance.  In  fact,  what 
on  earth  there  was  in  it  to  make  the  soldier  beside  him 
shake  and  shake  while  the  tears  periodically  rolled 
down  his  face  was  quite  beyond  Henry. 

The  principal  player  seemed  to  be  a  large  man — 
also  in  khaki — with  a  loud  voice.  Up  to  date  he  had 
said  nothing  but  "Now  then,  ladies,"  at  intervals,  and 
in  a  rising  crescendo.  Then  it  all  became  complicated. 

"Now  then,  ladies,  when  I  says  Number — you  num- 
bers from  Right  to  Left  in  an  heven  tone  of  voice. 
The  third  lady  from  the  left  'as  no  lady  behind  'er — 
seeing  as  we're  a  hodd  number.  She  forms  the  blank 
file.  Yes,  you,  mum — you,  I  means." 

"What  are  you  pointing  at  me  for,  my  good  man  ?" 
pThe  Vicar's  wife  suddenly  realised  she  was  being 
spoken  to.  "Am  I  doing  anything  wrong?" 

"No,  mum,  no.  Not  this  time.  I  was  only  saying 
as  you  'ave  no  one  behind  you." 

"Oh!  I'll  go  there  at  once — I'm  so  sorry."  She 
retired  to  the  rear  rank.  "Dear  Mrs.  Goodenough, 
did  I  tread  upon  your  foot? — so  clumsy  of  me!  Oh, 
what  is  that  man  saying  now?  But  you've  just  told 
me  to  come  here.  You  did  nothing  of  the  sort?  How 
rude!" 

But  as  I  said,  the  game  did  not  interest  James 
Henry,  so  he  wandered  away  and  played  in  some 
bushes.  There  were  distinct  traces  of  a  recently  mov- 


2i8  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

ing  mole  which  was  far  more  to  the  point.  Then 
having  found — after  a  diligent  search  and  much  de- 
light in  pungent  odours — that  the  mole  was  a  has- 
been,  our  Henry  disappeared  for  a  space.  And  far  be 
it  from  me  to  disclose  where  he  went:  his  intentions 
were  always  strictly  honourable. 

When  he  appeared  again  the  Earl  had  just  returned 
from  London,  and  was  talking  to  the  tall  soldier-man. 
The  Women  War  Workers  had  departed,  and,  as 
James  Henry  approached,  his  mistress  came  out  and 
joined  the  two  men. 

"Have  those  dreadful  women  gone,  my  dear?" 
asked  the  Earl  as  he  saw  her. 

"You're  very  rude,  Dad.  The  Federated  Associa- 
tion of  the  W.W.W.  is  a  very  fine  body  of  patriotic 
women.  What  did  you  think  of  our  drill,  Derek?" 

"Wonderful,  Monica.  Quite  the  most  wonderful 
thing  I've  ever  seen."  The  soldier  solemnly  offered 
her  a  cigarette. 

"You  men  are  all  jealous.  We're  coming  out  to 
France  as  V.A.D.'s  soon." 

"Good  Lord,  Derek — you  ought  to  have  seen  their 
first  drill.  In  one  corner  of  the  lawn  that  poor  devil 
of  a  sergeant  with  his  face  a  shiny  purple  alternately 
sobbed  and  bellowed  like  a  bull — while  twenty-seven 
W.W.W/s  tied  themselves  into  a  knot  like  a  Rugby 
football  scrum,  and  told  one  another  how  they'd  done 


JAMES  HENRY  219 

it.    It  was  the  most  heart-rending  sight  I've  ever  seen." 
"Dear  old  Dad !"    The  girl  blew  a  cloud  of  smoke. 
"You  told  it  better  last  time." 

"Don't  interrupt,  Monica.     The  final  tableau " 

"Which  one  are  you  going  to  tell  him,  dear?  The 
one  where  James  Henry  bit  the  Vicar's  wife  in  the 
leg,  or  the  one  where  the  sergeant  with  a  choking  cry 
of  'Double,  damn  you!'  fell  fainting  into  the  rhodo- 
dendron bush?" 

"I  think  the  second  is  the  better,"  remarked  the 
soldier  pensively.  "Dogs  always  bite  the  Vicar's 
wife's  leg.  Not  a  hobby  I  should  personally  take  up, 

but " 

They  all  laughed.  "Now  run  indoors,  old  'un,  and 
tell  John  to  get  you  a  mixed  Vermouth — I  want  to 
talk  to  Derek."  The  girl  gently  pushed  her  father 
towards  the  open  window. 

It  was  at  that  particular  moment  in  James  Henry's 
career  that,  having  snapped  at  a  wasp  and  partially 
killed  it,  he  inadvertently  sat  on  the  carcase  by  mis- 
take. As  he  explained  to  Harriet  Emily  afterwards, 
it  wasn't  so  much  the  discomfort  of  the  proceeding 
which  annoyed  him,  as  the  unfeeling  laughter  of  the 
spectators.  And  it  was  only  when  she'd  bitten  him 
in  the  other  ear  that  he  remembered  he  had  disowned 
her  that  very  afternoon. 


220  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

But  elsewhere,  though  he  was  quite  unaware  of  the 
fact,  momentous  decisions  as  to  his  future  were  being 
taken.  The  Earl  had  gone  in  to  get  his  mixed  Ver- 
mouth, and  outside  his  daughter  and  the  soldier-man 
sat  and  talked.  It  was  fragmentary,  disjointed — the 
talk  of  old  friends  with  much  in  common.  Only  in 
the  man's  voice  there  was  that  suppressed  note  which 
indicates  things  more  than  any  mere  words.  Monica 
heard  it  and  sighed — she'd  heard  it  so  often  before 
in  his  voice.  James  Henry  had  heard  it  too  during  a 
previous  talk — one  which  he  had  graced  with  his  pres- 
ence— and  had  gone  to  the  extent  of  discussing  it  with 
a  friend.  On  this  occasion  he  had  been  gently  dozing 
on  the  man's  knee,  when  suddenly  he  had  been  rudely 
awakened.  In  his  dreams  he  had  heard  her  say, 
"Dear  old  Derek— -I'm  afraid  it's  No.  You  see,  I'm 
not  sure;"  which  didn't  seem  much  to  make  a  dis- 
turbance about. 

"Would  you  believe  it,"  he  remarked  later,  "but  as 
she  spoke  the  soldier-man's  grip  tightened  on  my  neck 
till  I  was  almost  choked." 

"What  did  you  do?"  asked  his  Friend,  a  disrepu- 
table "long-dog."  "Did  you  bite  him?" 

"I  did  not"  James  Henry  sniffed.  "It  was  not 
a  biting  moment.  Tact  was  required.  I  just  gave  a 
little  cough,  and  instantly  he  took  his  hand  away. 
'Old  man,'  he  whispered  to  me — she'd  left  us — T'm 


JAMES  HENRY  221 

sorry.  I  didn't  mean  to — I  wasn't  thinking/  So  I 
licked  his  hand  to  show  him  I  understood." 

"I  know  what  you  mean.  I'm  generally  there  when 
my  bloke  comes  out  of  prison,  and  he  always  kicks  me. 
But  it's  meant  kindly." 

"As  a  matter  of  fact  that  is  not  what  I  mean — 
though  I  daresay  your  experiences  on  such  matters 
are  profound."  James  was  becoming  blue-blooded. 
"The  person  who  owns  you,  and  who  is  in  the  habit 
of  going  to — er — prison,  no  doubt  shows  his  affection 
for  you  in  that  way.  And  very  suitable  too.  But 
the  affair  to  which  I  alluded  is  quite  different.  The 
soldier-man  is  almost  as  much  in  my  care  as  the  girl. 
'And  so  I  know  his  feelings.  At  the  time,  he  was 
suffering  though  why  I  don't  understand;  and  there- 
fore it  was  up  to  me  to  suffer  with  him.  It  helped 
him." 

"H'm,"  the  lurcher  grunted.  "Daresay  you're 
right.  What  about  a  trip  to  the  gorse?  I  haven't 
seen  a  rabbit  for  some  time." 

And  if  Henry  had  not  sat  on  the  wasp,  his  neck 
might  again  have  been  squeezed  that  evening.  As  it 
was,  the  danger  period  was  over  by  the  time  he  re- 
appeared and  jumped  into  the  girl's  lap.  Not  only 
had  the  sixth  proposal  been  gently  turned  down — but 
James's  plans  for  the  near  future  had  been  settled  for 
him  in  a  most  arbitrary  manner. 


222  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

"Well,  old  man,  how's  the  tail  ?"  laughed  the  soldier. 
James  Henry  yawned — the  subject  seemed  a  trifle 
personal  even  amongst  old  friends.  "Have  you  heard 
you're  coming  with  me  to  France?" 

"And  you  must  bring  him  to  me  as  soon  as  I  get 
over,"  cried  the  girl. 

"At  once,  dear  lady.  I'll  ask  for  special  leave, 
and  if  necessary  an  armistice." 

"Won't  you  bark  at  the  Huns,  my  cherub?"  She 
laughed  and  got  up.  "Go  to  your  uncle — I'm  going 
to  dress." 

What  happened  then  was  almost  more  than  even 
the  most  long-suffering  terrier  could  stand.  He  was 
unceremoniously  bundled  into  his  uncle's  arms  by  his 
mistress,  and  at  the  same  moment  she  bent  down.  AJ 
strange  noise  was  heard  such  as  he  had  frequently 
noted,  coming  from  the  top  of  his  own  head,  when 
his  mistress  was  in  an  affectionate  mood — a  peculiar 
form  of  exercise  he  deduced,  which  apparently  amused 
some  people.  But  the  effect  on  the  soldier  was  elec- 
trical. He  sprang  out  of  his  chair  with  a  shout — • 
"Monica — you  little  devil: — come  back,"  and  James 
Henry  fell  winded  to  the  floor.  But  a  flutter  of  white 
disappearing  indoors  was  the  only  answer.  .  .  . 

"She's  not  sure,  James,  my  son — she's  not  sure." 
The  man  pulled  out  his  cigarette  case  and  contem- 
plated him  thoughtfully.  "And  how  the  deuce  are 


JAMES  HENRY  223 

we  to  make  her  sure  ?  I  want  it,  and  her  father  wants 
it,  and  so  does  she  if  she  only  knew  it.  They're  the 
devil,  James  Henry — they're  the  devil." 

But  his  hearer  did  not  want  philosophy;  he  wanted 
his  tummy  rubbed.  He  lay  with  one  eye  closed,  his 
four  paws  turned  up  limply  towards  the  sky,  and 
sighed  gently.  Never  before  had  the  suggestion 
failed;  enthusiastic  admirers  had  always  taken  the 
hint  gladly,  and  he  had  graciously  allowed  them  the 
pleasure.  But  this  time — horror  upon  horror — not 
only  was  there  no  result,  but  in  a  dreamy,  contem- 
plative manner  the  soldier  actually  deposited  his  used 
and  still  warm  match  carefully  on  the  spot  where 
James  Henry's  wind  had  been.  Naturally  there  was 
only  one  possible  course  open  to  him.  He  rose  quietly, 
and  left.  It  was  only  when  he  was  thinking  the  matter 
over  later  that  it  struck  him  that  his  exit  would  have 
been  more  dignified  if  he  hadn't  sat  down  halfway 
across  the  lawn  to  scratch  his  right  ear.  It  was  more 
than  likely  that  a  completely  false  construction  would 
be  put  on  that  simple  action  by  anyone  who  didn't 
know  he'd  had  words  with  Harriet  Emily. 

Thus  James  Henry — gentleman,  at  his  country  seat 
in  England.  I  have  gone  out  of  my  way  to  describe 
what  may  be  taken  as  an  average  day  in  his  life,  in 
order  to  show  him  as  he  was  before  he  went  to  France 


224  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

to  be  banished  from  the  country — cashiered  in  dis- 
grace a  few  weeks  after  his  arrival.  Which  only  goes 
to  prove  the  change  that  war  causes  in  even  the  most 
polished  and  courtly. 

I  am  told  that  the  alteration  for  the  worse  started 
shortly  after  his  arrival  at  the  front.  What  did  it 
I  don't  know — but  he  lost  one  whisker  and  a  portion 
of  an  ear,  thus  giving  him  a  somewhat  lopsided  appear- 
ance; though  rakish  withal.  It  may  have  been  a 
detonator  which  went  off  as  he  ate  it — it  may  have 
been  foolish  curiosity  over  a  maxim — it  may  even 
have  been  due  to  the  fact  that  he  found  a  motor-bicycle 
standing  still,  what  time  it  made  strange  provocative 
noises,  and  failed  to  notice  that  the  back  wheel  was 
off  the  ground  and  rotating  at  a  great  pace. 

Whatever  it  was  it  altered  James  Henry.  Not  that 
it  soured  his  temper — not  at  all ;  but  it  made  him  more 
reckless,  less  careful  of  appearances.  He  forgot  the 
repose  that  stamps  the  caste  of  Vere  de  Vere,  and  a 
series  of  incidents  occurred  which  tended  to  strain 
relations  all  round. 

There  was  the  question  of  the  three  dead  chickens, 
for  instance.  Had  they  disappeared  decently  and  in 
order  much  might  have  been  thought  but  nothing 
would  have  been  known.  But  when  they  were  de- 
posited on  their  owner's  doorstep,  with  James  Henry 
mounting  guard  over  the  corpses  himself,  it  was  a 


JAMES  HENRY  225 

little  difficult  to  explain  the  matter  away.  That  was 
the  trouble — his  sense  of  humour  seemed  to  have 
become  distorted. 

The  pastime  of  hunting  for  rats  in  the  sewers  of 
Ypres  cannot  be  too  highly  commended;  but  having 
got  thoroughly  wet  in  the  process,  James  Henry's 
practice  of  depositing  the  rat  and  himself  on  the 
Adjutant's  bed  was  open  to  grave  criticism. 

But  enough :  these  two  instances  were,  I  am  sorry 
to  state,  but  types  of  countless  other  regrettable  epi- 
sodes which  caused  the  popularity  of  James  Henry  to 
wane. 

The  final  decree  of  death  or  banishment  came  when 
James  had  been  in  the  country  some  seven  weeks. 

On  the  day  in  question  a  dreadful  shout  was  heard, 
followed  by  a  flood  of  language  which  I  will  refrain 
from  committing  to  print.  And  then  the  Colonel 
appeared  in  the  door  of  his  dug-out. 

"Where  is  that  accursed  idiot,  Murgatroyd?  Pass 
the  word  along  for  the  damn  fool." 

'  'Urry  up,  Conky.  The  ole  man's  a-twittering  for 
you."  Murgatroyd  emerged  from  a  recess. 

"What's  'e  want?" 

"I'd  go  and  find  out,  cully.  I  think  Vs  going  to 
mention  you  in  'is  will."  At  that  moment  a  fresh  out- 
burst floated  through  the  stillness. 

"Great  'Eavens!"     Murgatroyd  reluctantly  rose  to 


226  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

his  feet.  "So  long,  boys.  Tell  me  mother  she  was 
in  me  thoughts  up  to  the  end."  He  paused  outside 
the  dug-out  and  then  went  manfully  in.  "You  wanted 
me,  sir." 

"Look  at  this,  you  blithering  ass,  look  at  this." 
The  Colonel  was  searching  through  his  Fortnum  and 
Mason  packing-case  on  the  floor.  "Great  Heavens! 
and  the  caviar  too — imbedded  in  the  butter.  Five 
defunct  rodents  in  the  brawn" — he  threw  each  in  turn 
at  his  servant,  who  dodged  round  the  dug-out  like  a 
pea  in  a  drum — "the  marmalade  and  the  pate  de  fois 
gras  inseparably  mixed  together,  and  the  whole  cov- 
ered with  a  thick  layer  of  disintegrating  cigar." 

"It  wasn't  me,  sir,"  Murgatroyd  spoke  in  an  ag- 
grieved tone. 

"I  didn't  suppose  it  was,  you  fool."  The  Colonel 
straightened  himself  and  glared  at  his  hapless  minion. 
"Great  Heavens!  there's  another  rat  on  my  hair- 
brush." 

"One  of  the  same  five,  sir.  It  ricocheted  off  my 
face."  With  a  magnificent  nonchalance  his  servant 
threw  it  out  of  the  door.  "I  think,  sir,  it  must  be 
James  'Enry." 

"Who  the  devil  is  James  Henry?" 

"Sir  Derek  Temple's  little  dawg,  sir." 

"Indeed."    The  Colonel's  tone  was  ominous.     "Go 


JAMES  HENRY  227 

round  and  ask  Sir  Derek  Temple  to  be  good  enough 
to  come  and  see  me  at  once." 

What  happened  exactly  at  that  interview  I  cannot 
say;  although  I  understand  that  James  Henry  con- 
sidered an  absurd  fuss  had  been  made  about  a  trifle. 
In  fact  he  found  it  so  difficult  to  lie  down  with  any 
comfort  that  night  that  he  missed  much  of  his  master's 
conversation  with  him. 

"You've  topped  it,  James,  you've  put  the  brass  hat 
on.  The  old  man  threatens  to  turn  out  a  firing  party 
if  he  ever  sees  you  again." 

James  feigned  sleep :  this  continual  harping  on  what 
was  over  and  done  with  he  considered  the  very  worst 
of  form.  Even  if  he  had  put  the  caviar  in  the  butter 
and  his  foot  in  the  marmalade — well,  hang  it  all — > 
what  then?  He'd  presented  the  old  buster  with  five 
dead  rats,  which  was  more  than  he'd  do  for  a  lot  of 
people. 

"In  fact,  James,  you  are  not  popular,  my  boy — • 
and  I  shudder  to  think  what  Monica  will  do  with  you 
when  she  gets  you.  She's  come  over,  you  may  be 
pleased  to  hear,  Henry.  She  is  V.A.D.-ing  at  a  charm- 
ing hospital  that  overlooks  the  sea.  James,  why  can't 
I  go  sick — and  live  for  a  space  at  that  charming  hos- 
pital that  overlooks  the  sea  ?  Think  of  it :  here  am  I, 

panting  to  have  my  face  washed  by  her,  panting " 

For  a  moment  he  rhapsodised  in  silence.  "Breakfast 


228  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

in  bed,  poached  egg  in  the  bed:  oh!  James,  my  boy, 
and  she  probably  never  even  thinks  of  me." 

He  took  a  letter  out  of  his  pocket  and  held  it  under 
the  light  of  the  candle.  "  'Not  much  to  do  at  present, 
but  delightful  weather.  The  hospital  is  nearly  empty, 
though  there's  one  perfect  dear  who  is  almost  fit — a 
Major  in  some  Highland  regiment.' 

"Listen  to  that,  James.  Some  great  raw-boned, 
red-kneed  Scotchman,  and  she  calls  him  a  perfect 
dear!"  His  listener  blew  resignedly  and  again  com- 
posed himself  to  slumber. 

"'How  is  James  behaving?  I'd  love  to  see  the 
sweet  pet  again.'  Sweet  pet :  yes — my  boy — you  look 
it.  'Do  you  remember  how  annoyed  he  was  when  I 
put  him  in  your  arms  that  afternoon  at  home?'  Do 
you  hear  that,  James? — do  I  remember?  Monica, 
you  adorable  soul.  .  .  ."  He  relapsed  into  moody 
thought. 

•  •  •  •  • 

At  what  moment  during  that  restless  night  the  idea 
actually  came  I  know  not.  Possibly  a  diabolical  chuckle 
on  the  part  of  James  Henry,  who  was  hunting  in  his 
dreams,  goaded  him  to  desperation.  But  it  is  an  un- 
doubted fact  that  when  Sir  Derek  Temple  rose  the 
next  morning  he  had  definitely  determined  to  embark 
on  the  adventure  which  culminated  in  the  tragedy  of 
the  cat,  the  General,  and  James.  The  latter  is  reputed 


JAMES  HENRY  229 

to  regard  the  affair  as  quite  trifling  and  unworthy  of 
the  fierce  glare  of  publicity  that  beat  upon  it.  The 
cat,  has,  or  rather  had,  different  views. 

Now,  be  it  known  to  those  who  live  in  England 
that  it  is  one  thing  to  say  in  an  airy  manner,  as  Derek 
had  said  to  Lady  Monica,  that  he  would  come  and  see 
her  when  she  landed  in  France ;  it  is  another  to  do  it. 
But  to  a  determined  and  unprincipled  man  nothing 
is  impossible;  and  though  it  would  be  the  height  of 
indiscretion  for  me  to  hint  even  at  the  methods  he 
used  to  attain  his  ends,  it  is  a  certain  fact  that  in  the 
afternoon  of  the  second  day  following  the  episode  of 
the  five  rodents  he  found  himself  at  a  certain  seaport 
town  with  James  Henry  as  the  other  member  of  the 
party.  And  having  had  his  hair  cut,  and  extricated 
his  companion  from  a  street  brawl,  he  hired  a  motor 
and  drove  into  the  country. 

Now,  Derek  Temple's  knowledge  of  hospitals  and 
their  ways  was  not  profound.  He  had  a  hazy  idea 
that  on  arriving  at  the  portals  he  would  send  in  his 
name,  and  that  in  due  course  he  could  consume  a 
tete-a-tete  tea  with  Monica  in  her  private  boudoir.  He 
rehearsed  the  scene  in  his  mind :  the  quiet,  cutting  ref- 
erence to  Highlanders  who  failed  to  understand  the 
official  position  of  nurses — the  certainty  that  this  par- 
ticular one  was  a  scoundrel :  the  fact  that,  on  receiving 
her  letter,  he  had  at  once  rushed  off  to  protect  her. 


230  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

And  as  he  got  to  this  point  the  car  turned  into  the 
gates  of  a  palatial  hotel  and  stopped  by  the  door. 
James  Henry  jumped  through  the  open  window,  and 
his  master  followed  him  up  the  steps. 

"Is  Lady  Monica  Travers  at  home;  I  mean — er — • 
is  she  in  the  hospital?"  He  addressed  an  R.A.M.C. 
sergeant  in  the  entrance. 

"No  dawgs  allowed  in  the  'ospital,  sir."  The  scan- 
dalised N.C.O.  glared  at  James  Henry,  who  was  furi- 
ously growling  at  a  hot-air  grating  in  the  floor.  "You 
must  get  'im  out  at  once,  sir:  we're  being  inspected 
to-day." 

"Heel,  James,  heel.  He'll  be  quite  all  right,  Ser- 
geant. Just  find  out,  will  you,  about  Lady  Monica 
Travers?" 

"Beg  pardon,  sir,  but  are  you  a  patient?" 

"Patient — of  course  I'm  not  a  patient.  Do  I  look 
like  a  patient?" 

"Well,  sir,  there  ain't  no  visiting  allowed  when  the 
sisters  is  on  duty." 

"What?  But  it's  preposterous.  Do  you  mean  to 
say  I  can't  see  her  unless  I'm  a  patient?  Why,  man, 
I've  got  to  go  back  in  an  hour." 

"Very  sorry,  sir — but  no  visiting  allowed.  Very 
strict  'ere,  and  as  I  says  we're  full  of  brass  'ats 
to-day." 


JAMES  HENRY  231 

For  a  moment  Derek  was  nonplussed;  this  was  a 
complication  on  which  he  had  not  reckoned. 

"But  look  here,  Sergeant,  you  know  .  .  ."  and  even 
as  he  spoke  he  looked  upstairs  and  beheld  Lady 
Monica.  Unfortunately  she  had  not  seen  him,  and 
the  situation  was  desperate.  Forcing  James  Henry 
into  the  arms  of  the  outraged  N.C.O.,  he  rushed  up 
the  stairs  and  followed  her. 

"Derek !"  The  girl  stopped  in  amazement.  "What 
in  the  world  are  you  doing  here?" 

"Monica,  my  dear,  I've  come  to  see  you.  Tell  me 
that  you  don't  really  love  that  damn  Scotchman." 

An  adorable  smile  spread  over  her  face.  "You 
idiot !  I  don't  love  anyone.  My  work  fills  my  life." 

"Rot!  You  said  in  your  letter  you  had  nothing 
to  do  at  present.  Monica,  take  me  somewhere  where 
I  can  make  love  to  you." 

"I  shall  do  nothing  of  the  sort.  In  the  first  place 
you  aren't  allowed  here  at  all;  and  in  the  second  I 
don't  want  to  be  made  love  to." 

"And  in  the  third,"  said  Derek  grimly,  as  the  sound 
of  a  procession  advancing  down  a  corridor  came  from 
round  the  corner,  "you're  being  inspected  to-day,  and 
that — if  I  mistake  not — is  the  great  pan-jan-drum 
himself." 

"Oh!  good  Heavens.  Derek,  I'd  forgotten.  Do 
go,  for  goodness'  sake.  Run — I  shall  be  sacked." 


232  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

"I  shall  not  go.    As  the  great  man  himself  rounds 
that  corner  I  shall  kiss  you  with  a  loud  trumpeting 


noise." 


"You  brute!  Oh!  what  shall  I  do?— there  they 
are.  Come  in  here."  She  grabbed  him  by  the  wrist 
and  dragged  him  into  a  small  deserted  sitting-room 
close  by. 

"You  darling,"  he  remarked  and  promptly  kissed 
her.  "Monica,  dear,  you  must  listen " 

"Sit  down,  you  idiot.  I'm  sure  they  saw  me.  You 
must  pretend  you're  a  patient  just  come  in.  I  know 
I  shall  be  sacked.  The  General  is  dreadfully  particu- 
lar. Put  this  thermometer  in  your  mouth.  Quick, 
give  me  your  hand — I  must  take  your  pulse." 

"I  think,"  said  a  voice  outside  the  door,  "that  I 
saw — er — a  patient  being  brought  into  one  of  these 
rooms." 

"Surely  not,  sir.  These  rooms  are  all  empty."  The 
door  opened  and  the  cavalcade  paused.  "Er — Lady 
Monica  .  .  .  really." 

"A  new  patient,  Colonel,"  she  remarked.  "I  am 
just  taking  his  temperature."  Derek,  his  eyes  par- 
tially closed,  lay  back  in  a  chair,  occasionally  uttering 
a  slight  groan. 

"The  case  looks  most  interesting."  The  General 
came  and  stood  beside  him.  "Most  interesting.  Have 


JAMES  HENRY  233 

you — er — diagnosed  the  symptoms,  sister?"  His  lips 
were  twitching  suspiciously. 

"Not  yet,  General.  The  pulse  is  normal — and  the 
temperature" — she  looked  at  the  thermometer — "is — • 
good  gracious  me!  have  you  kept  it  properly  under 
your  tongue?"  She  turned  to  Derek,  who  nodded 
feebly.  "The  temperature  is  only  93."  She  looked  at 
the  group  in  an  awestruck  manner. 

"Most  remarkable,"  murmured  the  General.  "One 
feels  compelled  to  wonder  what  it  would  have  been 
if  he'd  had  the  right  end  in  his  mouth."  Derek 
emitted  a  hollow  groan.  "And  where  do  you  feel  it 
worst,  my  dear  boy  ?"  continued  the  great  man,  gazing 
at  him  through  his  eyeglass. 

"Dyspepsia,  sir,"  he  whispered  feebly.  "Dreadful 
dyspepsia.  I  can't  sleep,  I — er — Good  Lord!"  His 
eyes  opened,  his  voice  rose,  and  with  a  fixed  stare  of 
horror  he  gazed  at  the  door.  Through  it  with  due 
solemnity  came  James  Henry  holding  in  his  mouth  a 
furless  and  very  dead  cat.  He  advanced  to  the  centre 
of  the  group — laid  it  at  the  General's  feet — and  hav- 
ing sneezed  twice  sat  down  and  contemplated  his  handi- 
work :  his  tail  thumping  the  floor  feverishly  in  antici- 
pation of  well-merited  applause. 

It  was  possibly  foolish,  but,  as  Derek  explained 
afterwards  to  Monica,  the  situation  had  passed  beyond 
him.  He  arose  and  confronted  the  General,  who  was 


234  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

surveying  the  scene  coldly,  and  with  a  courtly  excla- 
mation of  "Your  cat,  I  believe,  sir,"  he  passed  from 
the  room. 

The  conclusion  of  this  dreadful  drama  may  be  given 
in  three  short  sentences. 

The  first  was  spoken  by  the  General.  "Let  it  be 
buried/'  And  it  was  so. 

The  second  was  whispered  by  Lady  Monica — later* 
"Darling,  I  had  to  say  we  were  engaged :  it  looked  sq 
peculiar."  And  it  was  even  more  so. 

The  third  was  snorted  by  James  Henry.  "First 
I'm  beaten  and  then  I'm  kissed.  Damn  all  cats !" 


PART  TWO 
[THE  LAND  OF  TOPSY  TURVX 


PART  TWO 
THE  LAND  OF  TOPSY  TURVYj 

CHAPTER    I 

THE   GREY    HOUSE 

YOU  come  on  it  unexpectedly,  round  a  little  spur 
in  the  side  of  the  valley,  which  screens  it  from 
view.  It  stands  below  you  as  you  first  see  it,  not  a 
big  house,  not  a  little  one,  but  just  comfortable.  It 
seems  in  keeping  with  the  gardens,  the  tennis  courts, 
the  orchards  which  lie  around  it  in  a  hap-hazard  sort 
of  manner,  as  if  they  had  just  grown  there  years  and 
years  ago  and  had  been  too  lazy  to  move  ever  since. 
Peace  is  the  keynote  of  the  whole  picture — the  peace 
and  contentment  of  sleepy  unwoken  England. 

Down  in  the  valley  below,  the  river,  brown  and 
swollen,  carries  on  its  bosom  the  flotsam  and  jetsam 
of  its  pilgrimage  through  the  country.  Now  and  then 
a  great  branch  goes  bobbing  by,  only  to  come  to  grief 
in  the  shallows  round  the  corner — the  shallows  where 
the  noise  of  the  water  on  the  rounded  stones  lulls  one 

237 


238  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

to  sleep  at  night,  and  sounds  a  ceaseless  reveille  each 
morning.  On  the  other  side  of  the  water  the  woods 
stretch  down  close  to  the  bank,  though  the  upper  slopes 
of  the  hills  are  bare,  and  bathed  in  the  golden  light  of 
the  dying  winter  sun.  Slowly  the  dark  shadow  line 
creeps  up — creeps  up  to  meet  the  shepherd  coming 
home  with  his  flock.  Faint,  but  crisp,  the  barks  of  his 
dog,  prancing  excitedly  round  him,  strike  on  one's 
ears,  and  then  of  a  sudden — silence.  They  have  en- 
tered the  purple  country;  they  have  left  the  golden 
land,  and  the  dog  trots  soberly  at  his  master's  heels. 
One  last  peak  alone  remains,  dipped  in  flaming  yellow, 
and  then  that  too  is  touched  by  the  finger  of  oncoming 
night.  For  a  few  moments  it  survives,  a  flicker  of  fire 
on  its  rugged  tip,  and  then — the  end ;  like  a  grim  black 
sentinel  it  stands  gloomy  and  sinister  against  the 
evening  sky. 

The  shepherd  is  out  of  sight  amongst  the  trees; 
the  purple  is  changing  to  grey,  the  grey  to  black; 
there  is  no  movement  saving  only  the  tireless  swish 
of  the  river.  .  .  . 

To  the  man  leaning  over  the  gate  the  scene  was 
familiar — but  familiarity  had  not  robbed  it  of  its 
charm.  Involuntarily  his  mind  went  back  to  the 
days  before  the  Madness  came — to  the  days  when 
others  had  stood  beside  him  watching  those  same  dark- 
ening hills,  with  the  smoke  of  their  pipes  curling  gently 


THE  GREY  HOUSE  239 

away  in  the  still  air.  Back  from  a  day's  shooting, 
back  from  an  afternoon  on  the  river,  and  a  rest  at  the 
top  of  the  hill  before  going  in  to  tea  in  the  house  below. 
So  had  he  stood  countless  times  in  the  past — with 
those  others.  .  .  . 

The  Rabbit,  with  a  gun  under  his  arm,  and  his 
stubby  briar  glowing  red  in  the  paling  light.  The 
Rabbit,  with  his  old  shooting-coat,  with  the  yarn  of 
the  one  woodcock  he  nearly  got,  with  his  cheery  laugh. 
But  they  never  found  anything  of  him — an  eight-inch 
shell  is  at  any  rate  merciful. 

Torps — the  naval  candidate:  one  of  the  worst  and 
most  gallant  riders  that  ever  threw  a  leg  across  a 
horse.  Somewhere  in  the  depths  of  the  Pacific,  with 
the  great  heaving  combers  as  his  grave,  he  lies  peace- 
fully; and  as  for  a  little  while  he  had  gasped  and 
struggled  while  hundreds  of  others  gasped  and  strug- 
gled near  him — perhaps  he,  too,  had  seen  the  hills 
opposite  once  again  even  as  the  Last  Fence  loomed  in 
front  and  the  whispered  Kismet  came  from  his  lips. . . . 

Hugh — the  son  of  the  house  close  by.  Twice 
wounded,  and  now  out  again  in  Mesopotamia.  Did 
the  sound  of  the  water  come  to  him  as  the  sun  dropped, 
slow  and  pitiless,  into  the  west?  The  same  parching, 
crawling  days  following  one  another  in  deadly  mo- 
notony :  the  same  .  ,  . 


240  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

"Dreaming,  Jim?"  A  woman's  voice  behind  him 
broke  on  the  man's  thoughts. 

"Yes,  lady,"  he  answered  soberly.  "Dreaming. 
Some  of  the  ghosts  we  knew  have  been  coming  to  me 
out  of  the  blue  grey  mists."  He  fell  into  step  beside 
her,  and  they  moved  towards  the  house. 

"Ah!  don't,"  she  whispered— "don't !  Oh!  it's 
wicked,  this  war;  cruel,  damnable."  She  stopped  and 
faced  him,  her  breast  rising  and  falling  quickly.  "And 
we  can't  follow  you,  Jim — we  women.  You  go  into 
the  unknown." 

"Yes — yours  is  the  harder  part.  You  can  only 
wait  and  wonder." 

"Wait  and  wonder!"  She  laughed  bitterly.  "Hope 
and  pray — while  God  sleeps." 

"Hush,  lady!"  he  answered  quietly;  "for  that  way 
there  lies  no  peace.  Is  Sybil  indoors?" 

"Yes — she's  expecting  you.  Thank  goodness  you're 
not  going  out  yet  awhile,  Jim;  the  child  is  fretting 
herself  sick  over  her  brother  as  it  is — and  when  you 
go.  .  .  ." 

"Yes — when  I  go,  what  then?"  he  asked  quietly. 
"Because  I'm  very  nearly  fit  again,  Lady  Alice.  My 
arm  is  nearly  all  right." 

"Do  you  want  to  go  back,  Jim?"  Her  quiet  eyes 
searched  his  face.  "Look  at  that." 

They  had  rounded  a  corner,  and  in  front  of  them 


THE  GREY  HOUSE  241 

a  man  was  leaning  against  a  wall  talking  to  the  cook. 
They  were  in  the  stage  known  as  walking-out — or  is 
it  keeping  company?  The  point  is  immaterial  and 
uninteresting.  But  the  man,  fit  and  strong,  was  in  a 
starred  trade.  He  was  a  forester — or  had  been  since 
the  first  rumour  of  compulsion  had  startled  his  poor 
tremulous  spirit.  A  very  fine,  but  not  unique  example 
of  the  genuine  shirker.  .  .  . 

"What  has  he  to  do  with  us?"  said  Jim  bitterly. 
"That  thing  takes  his  stand  along  with  the  criminals, 
and  the  mental  degenerates.  He's  worse  than  a  con- 
scientious objector.  And  weVe  got  no  choice.  He 
reaps  the  benefits  for  which  he  refuses  to  fight.  I  don't 
want  to  go  back  to  France  particularly;  every  feeling 
I've  got  revolts  at  the  idea  just  at  present.  I  want 
to  be  with  Sybil,  as  you  know;  I  want  to — oh!  God 
knows!  I  was  mad  over  the  water — it  bit  into  me; 
I  was  caught  by  the  fever.  It's  an  amazing  thing  how 
it  gets  hold  of  one.  All  the  dirt  and  discomfort,  and 
the  boredom  and  the  fright — one  would  have 
thought  .  .  ."  He  laughed.  "I  suppose  it's  the  mad- 
ness in  the  air.  But  I'm  sane  now." 

"Are  you?  I  wonder  for  how  long.  Let's  go  in 
and  have  some  tea."  The  woman  led  the  way  indoors ; 
there  was  silence  again  save  only  for  the  sound  of  the 
river. 


CHAPTER    II 

THE  WOMEN  AND — THE  MEN 

WHEN  Jim  Denver  told  Lady  Alice  Conway  that 
he  was  sane  again,  he  spoke  no  more  than  the 
truth.  A  few  weeks  in  France,  and  then  a  shattered 
arm  had  brought  him  back  to  England  with  more 
understanding  than  he  had  ever  possessed  before.  He 
had  gone  out  the  ordinary  Englishman — casual,  sport- 
ing, easy  going,  somewhat  apathetic;  he  had  come 
back  a  thinker  as  well,  at  times  almost  a  dreamer.  It 
affects  different  men  in  different  ways — but  none  es- 
cape. And  that  is  what  those  others  cannot  under- 
stand— those  others  who  have  not  been  across. 
Even  the  man  who  comes  back  on  short  leave  hardly 
grasps  how  the  thing  has  changed  him :  hardly  realises 
that  the  madness  is  still  in  his  soul.  He  has  not  time; 
his  leave  is  just  an  interlude.  He  is  back  again  in 
France  almost  before  he  realises  he  has  left  it.  In 
mind  he  has  never  left  it. 

There  is  humour  there  in  plenty — farce  even ;  bore- 
dom, excitement,  passion,  hatred.  Every  human  emo- 
tion runs  its  full  gamut  in  the  Land  of  Topsy  Turvy; 

243 


244  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

in  the  place  where  the  life  of  a  man  is  no  longer 
three-score  years  and  ten,  but  just  so  long  as  the  Great 
Reaper  may  decide  and  no  more.  And  you  are  caught 
in  the  whirl — you  are  tossed  here  and  there  by  a  life 
of  artificiality,  a  life  not  of  one's  own  seeking,  but  a 
life  which,  having  once  caught  you,  you  are  loath  to 
let  go. 

Which  is  a  hard  saying,  and  one  impossible  of  com- 
prehension to  those  who  wait  behind — to  the  wives, 
to  the  mothers,  to  the  women.  To  them  the  leave- 
train  pulling  slowly  out  of  Victoria  Station,  with  their 
man  waving  a  last  adieu  from  the  carriage  window, 
means  the  ringing  down  of  the  curtain  once  again. 
The  unknown  has  swallowed  him  up — the  unknown 
into  which  they  cannot  follow  him.  Be  he  in  a  Staff 
office  at  the  base  or  with  his  battalion  in  the  trenches, 
he  has  gone  where  the  woman  to  whom  he  counts  as 
all  the  world  cannot  even  picture  him  in  her  mind.  To 
her  Flanders  is  Flanders  and  war  is  war — and  there 
are  casualty  lists.  What  matter  that  his  battalion  is 
resting ;  what  matter  that  he  is  going  through  a  course 
somewhere  at  the  back  of  beyond  ?  He  has  gone  into 
the  Unknown;  the  whistle  of  the  train  steaming 
slowly  out  is  the  voice  of  the  call-boy  at  the  drop  cur- 
tain. And  now  the  train  has  passed  out  of  sight — or 
is  it  only  that  her  eyes  are  dim  with  the  tears  she  kept 
back  while  he  was  with  her? 


THE  WOMEN  AND— THE  MEN  245 

At  last  she  turns  and  goes  blindly  back  to  the  room 
where  they  had  breakfast;  she  sees  once  more  the 
chair  he  used,  the  crumpled  morning  paper,  the  dis- 
carded cigarette.  And  there  let  us  leave  her  with 
tear-stained  face  and  a  pathetic  little  sodden  handker- 
chief clutched  in  one  hand.  "O  God !  dear  God !  send 
him  back  to  me."  Our  women  do  not  show  us  this 
side  very  much  when  we  are  on  leave ;  perhaps  it  is  as 
well,  for  the  ground  on  which  we  stand  is  holy.  .  .  . 

And  what  of  the  man?  The  train  is  grinding 
through  Herne  Hill  when  he  puts  down  his  Times  and 
catches  sight  of  another  man  in  his  brigade  also  return- 
ing from  leave. 

"Hullo,  old  man!  What  sort  of  a  time  have  you 
had?" 

"Top-hole.  How's  yourself  ?  Was  that  your  mem- 
sahib  at  the  station?" 

"Yes.  Dislike  women  at  these  partings  as  a  gen- 
eral rule — but  she's  wonderful." 

"They're  pulling  the  brigade  out  to  rest,  I  hear." 

"So  I  believe.  Anyway,  I  hope  they've  buried  that 
dead  Hun  just  in  front  of  us.  He  was  getting  beyond 
a  joke.  .  .  ." 

He  is  back  in  the  life  over  the  water  again;  there 
is  nothing  incongruous  to  him  in  his  sequence  of  re- 
marks; the  time  of  his  leave  has  been  too  short  for 


246  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

the  contrast  to  strike  him.  In  fact,  the  whirl  of  gaiety 
in  which  he  has  passed  his  seven  days  seems  more 
unreal  than  his  other  life — than  the  dead  German. 
And  it  is  only  when  a  man  is  wounded  and  comes 
home  to  get  fit,  when  he  idles  away  the  day  in  the 
home  of  his  fathers,  with  a  rod  or  a  gun  to  help  him 
back  to  convalescence,  when  the  soothing  balm  of 
utter  peace  and  contentment  creeps  slowly  through 
his  veins,  that  he  looks  back  on  the  past  few  months 
as  a  runner  on  a  race  just  over.  He  has  given  of  his 
best;  he  is  ready  to  give  of  his  best  again;  but  at 
the  moment  he  is  exhausted;  panting,  but  at  rest. 
For  the  time  the  madness  has  left  him;  he  is  sane. 
But  it  is  only  for  the  time.  .  .  . 

He  is  able  to  think  coherently;  he  is  able  to  look 
on  things  in  their  proper  perspective.  He  knows. 
The  bits  in  the  kaleidoscope  begin  to  group  coherently, 
to  take  definite  form,  and  he  views  the  picture  from 
the  standpoint  of  a  rational  man.  To  him  the  leave- 
train  contains  no  illusions;  the  territory  is  not  un- 
known. No  longer  does  a  dead  Hun  dwarf  his  horizon 
to  the  exclusion  of  all  else.  He  has  looked  on  the 
thing  from  close  quarters ;  he  has  been  mad  with  pas- 
sion and  shaking  with  fright;  he  has  been  cold  and 
wet,  he  has  been  hot  and  thirsty.  Like  a  blaze  of 
tropical  vegetation  from  which  individual  colours  re- 


THE  WOMEN  AND— THE  MEN  247 

fuse  to  be  separated,  so  does  the  jumble  of  his  life  in 
Flanders  strike  him  as  he  looks  back  on  it.  Isolated 
occurrences  seem  unreal,  hard  to  identify.  The  little 
things  which  then  meant  so  much  now  seem  so  paltry ; 
the  things  he  hardly  noticed  now  loom  big.  Above 
all,  the  grim  absurdity  of  the  whole  thing  strikes  him; 
civilisation  has  at  last  been  denned.  .  .  . 

He  marvels  that  men  can  be  such  wonderful,  such 
super-human  fools;  his  philosophy  changes.  He  re- 
calls grimly  the  particular  night  on  which  he  crept 
over  a  dirty  ploughed  field  and  scrambled  into  a  shell- 
hole  as  he  saw  the  thin  green  streak  of  a  German 
flare  like  a  bar  of  light  against  the  blackness;  then 
the  burst — the  ghostly  light  flooding  the  desolate  land- 
scape— the  crack  of  a  solitary  rifle  away  to  his  left. 
And  as  the  flare  came  slowly  hissing  down,  a  ball  of 
fire,  he  saw  the  other  occupant  of  his  hiding-place — a 
man's  leg,  just  that,  nothing  more.  And  he  laughs; 
the  thing  is  too  absurd. 

It  is;  it  is  absurd;  it  is  monstrous,  farcical.  The 
realisation  has  come  to  him ;  he  is  sane — for  a  time. 

Sane:  but  for  how  long?  It  varies  with  the  type. 
There  are  some  who  love  the  game — who  love  it  for 
itself  alone.  They  sit  on  the  steps  of  the  War  Office, 
and  drive  their  C.O.'s  mad:  they  pull  strings  both 
male  and  female,  until  the  powers  that  be  rise  in  their 
wrath,  and  consign  them  to  perdition  and — France. 


248  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

There  are  others  who  do  not  take  it  quite  like  that. 
They  do  not  want  to  go  back  particularly — and  if  they 
were  given  an  important  job  in  England,  a  job  for 
which  they  had  special  aptitude,  in  which  they  knew 
they  were  invaluable,  they  would  take  it  without  regret. 
But  though  they  may  not  seek  earnestly  for  France — • 
neither  do  they  seek  for  home.  Their  wants  do  not 
matter ;  their  private  interests  do  not  count :  it  is  only 
England  to-day.  .  .  . 

And  lastly  there  is  a  third  class,  the  class  to  whom 
that  accursed  catch-phrase,  "Doing  his  bit,"  means 
everything.  There  are  some  who  consider  they  have 
done  their  bit — that  they  need  do  no  more.  They 
draw  comparisons  and  become  self-righteous.  "Be- 
hold I  am  not  as  other  men  are,"  they  murmur  com- 
placently; "have  not  I  kept  the  home  fires  burning, 
and  amassed  money  making  munitions  ?"  I  am  doing 
my  bit."  "I  have  been  out;  I  have  been  hit — and 
he  has  not.  Why  should  I  go  again?  I  have  done 
my  bit."  Well,  friend,  it  may  be  as  you  say.  But 
methinks  there  is  only  one  question  worth  putting 
and  answering  to-day.  Don't  bother  about  having 
done  your  bit.  Are  you  doing  your  all?  Let  us  leave 
it  at  that. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE   WOMAN   AND  THE  MAN 

W HEN'S  your   board,   Jim?"     The   flickering 
light  of  the  fire  lit  up  the  old  oak  hall,  playing 
on  the  face  of  the  girl  buried  in  an  easy  chair.    Tea 
>vas  over,  and  they  were  alone. 

"On  Tuesday,  dear,"  he  answered  gravely. 

"But  you  aren't  fit,  old  man ;  you  don't  think  you're 
fit  yet,  do  you?"  There  was  a  note  of  anxiety  in  her 
yoke. 

"I'm  perfectly  fit,  Sybil,"  he  said  quietly — "per- 
Jectly  fit,  my  dear." 

"Then  you'll  go  back  soon?"  She  looked  at  him 
with  frightened  eyes. 

"Just  as  soon  as  they'll  send  me.  I  am  going  to 
ask  the  Board  to  pass  me  fit  'for  General  Service.'  " 

"Oh,  Jim!"— he  hardly  caught  the  whisper.  "Oh, 
Jim !  my  man." 

"Well "  he  came  over  and  knelt  in  front  of  her. 

"It  makes  me  sick,"  she  cried  fiercely,  "to  think 
of  you  and  Hugh  and  men  like  you — and  then  to 
think  of  all  these  other  cowardly  beasts.  My  dear, 
my  dear — do  you  want  to  go  back?" 

249 


250  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

"At  present,  I  don't.  I'm  utterly  happy  here  with 
you,  and  the  old  peaceful  country  life.  I'm  afraid, 
Syb — I'm  afraid  of  going  on  with  it  I'm  afraid  of 
its  sapping  my  vitality — I'm  afraid  of  never  wanting 
to  go  back."  His  voice  died  away,  and  then  suddenly 
he  leant  forward  and  kissed  her  on  the  mouth. 

"Come  over  here  a  moment,"  he  stood  up  and  drew 
her  to  him.  "Come  over  here."  With  his  arm  round 
her  shoulders  he  led  her  over  to  a  great  portrait  in 
oils  that  hung  against  the  wall,  the  portrait  of  a  stem- 
faced  soldier  in  the  uniform  of  a  forgotten  century. 
To  the  girl  the  picture  of  her  great-grandfather  was 
not  a  thing  of  surpassing  interest — she  had  seen  it  too 
often  before.  But  she  was  a  girl  of  understanding, 
and  she  realised  that  the  soul  of  the  man  beside  her 
was  in  the  melting-pot ;  and,  moreover,  that  she  might 
make  or  mar  the  mould  into  which  it  must  run.  So  in 
her  wisdom  she  said  nothing,  and  waited. 

"I  want  you  to  listen  to  me  for  a  bit,  Syb,"  he  began 
after  a  while.  "I'm  not  much  of  a  fist  at  talking — - 
especially  on  things  I  feel  very  deeply  about.  I  can't 
track  my  people  back  like  you  can.  The  corresponding 
generation  in  my  family  to  that  old  buster  was  a  junior 
inkslinger  in  a  small  counting-house  up  North.  And 
that  junior  inkslinger  made  good :  you  know  what  I'm 
worth  to-day  if  the  governor  died." 


THE  WOMAN  AND  THE  MAN    251 

He  started  to  pace  restlessly  up  and  down  the  hall, 
while  the  girl  watched  him  quietly. 

"Then  came  this  war  and  I  went  into  it — not  for 
any  highfalutin  motives,  not  because  I  longed  to 
avenge  Belgium — but  simply  because  my  pals  were 
all  soldiers  or  sailors,  and  it  never  occurred  to  me 
not  to.  In  fact  at  first  I  was  rather  pleased  with 
myself — I  treated  it  as  a  joke  more  or  less.  The 
governor  was  inordinately  proud  of  me;  the  mater 
had  about  twelve  dozen  photographs  of  me  in  uniform 
sent  round  the  country  to  various  bored  and  un- 
willing recipients;  and  lots  of  people  combined  to 
tell  me  what  a  damn  fine  fellow  I  was.  Do  you  think 
he'd  have  thought  so?"  He  stopped  underneath  the 
portrait  and  for  a  while  gazed  at  the  painted  face  with 
a  smile. 

"That  old  blackguard  up  there — who  lived  every 
moment  of  his  life — do  you  think  he  would  have  ac- 
counted that  to  me  for  credit?  What  would  he  say 
if  he  knew  that  in  a  crisis  like  this  there  are  men 
who  cloak  perfect  sight  behind  blue  glasses;  that  there 
are  men  who  have  joined  home  defence  units  though 
they  are  perfectly  fit  to  fight  anywhere?  And  what 
would  he  say,  Sybil,  if  he  knew  that  a  man,  even 
though  he'd  done  something,  was  now  resting  on  his 
oars — content  ?" 

"Go  on,  dear!"    The  girl's  eyes  were  shining  now. 


252  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

"I'm  coming  to  the  point.  This  morning  the  old 
dad  started  on  the  line  of  various  fellows  he  knew 
whose  sons  hadn't  been  out  yet;  and  he  didn't  see 
why  I  should  go  a  second  time — before  they  went. 
The  business  instinct  to  a  certain  extent,  I  suppose — 
the  point  of  view  of  a  business  man.  But  would  he 
understand  that?"  Again  he  nodded  to  the  picture. 

"I  think "  She  began  to  speak,  and  then  fell 

silent. 

"Ah!  but  would  he,  my  dear?  What  of  Hugh, 
of  the  Rabbit,  of  Torps?  With  them  it  was  bred  in 
the  bone — with  me  it  was  not.  For  years  I  and  mine 
have  despised  the  soldier  and  the  sailor :  for  years  you 
and  yours  have  despised  the  counting-house.  And  all 
that  is  changing.  Over  there  the  tinkers,  the  tailors, 
the  merchants,  are  standing  together  with  the  old  breed 
of  soldier — the  two  lots  are  beginning  to  understand 
one  another — to  respect  one  another.  You're  learning 
from  us,  and  we're  learning  from  you,  though  he 
would  never  have  believed  that  possible." 

Jim  was  standing  very  close  to  the  girl,  and  his  voice 
was  low. 

"It's  because  I'm  not  very  sure  of  one  of  the  lessons 
I've  learnt:  it's  because  at  times  I  do  think  it  hard 
that  others  should  not  take  their  fair  share  that  I  must 
get  back  to  that  show  quick — damn  quick. 

"I  want  to  be  worthy  of  that  old  ancestor  of  yours 


THE  WOMAN  AND  THE  MAN    253 

— now  that  I'm  going  to  marry  one  of  his  family.  I 
know  we're  all  mad — I  know  the  world's  mad;  but, 
Syb,  dear,  you  wouldn't  have  me  sane,  would  you; 
not  for  ever?  And  I  shall  be  if  I  stay  here  any 
longer.  .  .  ." 

"I  understand,  Jim,"  she  answered,  after  a  while. 
"I  understand  exactly.  And  I  wouldn't  have  you 
sane,  except  just  now  for  a  little  while:  Because  it's 
a  glorious  madness,  and" — she  put  both  her  arms 
round  his  neck  and  kissed  him  passionately — "and  I 
love  you." 

Which  was  quite  illogical  and  inconsequent — but 
there  you  are.  What  is  not  illogical  and  inconsequent 
nowadays  ? 

From  which  it  will  be  seen  that  Jim  Denver  was 
not  of  the  first  of  the  three  types  which  I  have  men- 
tioned. He  did  not  love  the  game  for  itself  alone; 
my  masters,  there  are  not  many  who  do.  But  there 
was  no  job  in  England  in  which  he  would  prove  in- 
valuable :  though  there  were  many  which  with  a  little 
care  he  might  have  adorned  beautifully. 

And  just  because  there  is  blood  in  the  counting- 
house,  which  only  requires  to  be  brought  out  to  show 
itself,  he  knew  that  he  must  go  back — he  knew  that 
it  was  his  job. 

That  wild  enthusiasm  which  he  had  shared  with 


254  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

other  subalterns  in  his  battalion  before  they  had  been 
over  the  first  time  was  lacking  now;  he  was  calmer — 
more  evenly  balanced.  He  had  attained  the  courage 
of  knowledge  instead  of  the  courage  of  ignorance. 

No  longer  did  the  men  who  waited  to  be  fetched 
excuse  him — even  though  he  had  "done  his  bit."  No 
longer  was  it  possible  to  shelter  behind  another  man's 
failure,  and  plead  for  so-called  equality  of  sacrifice. 
To  him  had  come  the  meaning  of  tradition — that 
strange,  nameless  something  which  has  kept  regiments 
in  a  position,  battered  with  shells,  stunned  with  shock, 
gassed,  brain  reeling,  mind  gone,  with  nothing  to  hold 
them  except  that  nameless  something  which  says  to 
them,  "Hold  on!"  While  other  regiments,  composed 
of  men  as  brave,  have  not  held.  To  him  had  come 
that  quality  which  has  sent  men  laughing  and  talking 
without  a  quaver  to  their  death;  that  quality  which 
causes  men — eaten  with  fever,  lonely,  weary  to  death, 
thinking  themselves  forsaken  even  of  God — to  carry 
on  the  Empire's  work  in  the  uttermost  corners  of  the 
globe,  simply  because  it  is  their  job. 

He  had  assimilated  to  a  certain  extent  the  ideas 
of  that  stern,  dead  soldier;  he  had  visualised  them; 
he  had  realised  that  the  destinies  of  a  country  are  not 
entrusted  to  all  her  children.  Many  are  not  worthy 
to  handle  them,  which  makes  the  glory  for  the  few  all 
the  greater.  .  .  . 


THE  WOMAN  AND  THE  MAN    255 

Winds  of  the  world,  give  answer !    They  are  whimpering 

to  and  fro — 
And  what  should  they  know  of  England,  who  only 

England  know? 
The  poor  little  street-bred  people  that  vapour  and  fume 

and  brag, 

They  are  lifting  their  heads  in  the  stillness  to  yelp  at 
the  English  Flag. 

Never  the  lotos  closes,  never  the  wild-fowl  wake, 

But  a  soul  goes  out  on  the  East  wind  that  died  for 

England's  sake — 

Man  or  woman  or  suckling,  mother  or  bride  or  maid — 
Because  on  the  bones  of  the  English  the  English  flag  is 
stayed. 


CHAPTER   IV 
"THE  REGIMENT" 

ON  the  Tuesday  a  board  of  doctors  passed  Jim 
Denver  fit  for  General  Service,  having  first 
given  him  the  option  of  a  month's  home  service  if  he 
liked.  Two  days  after  he  turned  up  at  the  depot  of  his 
regiment,  where  he  found  men  in  various  stages  of 
convalescence — light  duty,  ordinary  duty  at  home, 
and  fit  to  go  out  like  himself.  One  or  two  he  knew, 
and  most  of  them  he  didn't.  There  were  a  few  old 
regular  officers  and  a  large  number  of  very  new  ones 
— who  were  being  led  in  the  way  they  should  go. 

But  there  is  little  to  tell  of  the  time  he  spent  waiting 
to  go  out.  This  is  not  a  diary  of  his  life — not  even 
an  account  of  it;  it  is  merely  an  attempt  to  portray 
a  state  of  mind — an  outlook  on  life  engendered  by 
war,  in  a  man  whom  war  had  caused  to  think  for  the 
first  time. 

And  so  the  only  incidents  which  I  propose  to  give 
of  his  time  at  the  depot  is  a  short  account  of  a  smok- 
ing concert  he  attended  and  a  conversation  he  had 
the  following  day  with  one  Vane,  a  stockbroker.  The 

257 


258  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

two  things  taken  individually  meant  but  little:  taken 
together — well,  the  humour  was  the  humour  of  the 
Land  of  Topsy  Turvy.  A  delicate  humour,  not  to  be 
appreciated  by  all :  with  subtle  shades  and  delicate 
strands  and  bloody  brutality  woven  together.  .  .  . 

A  sudden  silence  settled  on  the  gymnasium;  the 
man  at  the  piano  turned  round  so  as  to  hear  better; 
the  soldiers  sitting  astride  the  horse  ceased  laughing 
and  playing  the  fool. 

At  a  table  at  the  end  of  the  big  room,  seen  dimly 
through  the  smoke-clouded  atmosphere,  sat  a  group 
of  officers,  while  the  regimental  sergeant-major,  sup- 
ported by  other  great  ones  of  the  non-commissioned 
rank  near  by,  presided  over  the  proceedings. 

Occasionally  a  soldier-waiter  passed  behind  the 
officers'  chairs,  armed  with  a  business-like  bottle  and 
a  box  of  dangerous-looking  cigars ;  and  unless  he  was 
watched  carefully  he  was  apt  to  replenish  the  liquid 
refreshment  in  a  manner  which  suggested  that  he 
regarded  soda  as  harmful  in  the  extreme  to  the  human 
system.  Had  he  not  received  his  instructions  from 
that  great  man  the  regimental  himself? 

For  an  hour  and  a  half  the  smoking  concert  had 
been  in  progress;  the  Brothers  Bimbo,  those  masterly 
knock-about  comedians,  had  given  their  performance 
amid  rapturous  applause.  In  life  the  famous  pair  were 


"THE  REGIMENT"  259 

a  machine-gun  sergeant  and  a  cook's  mate;  but  on 
such  gala  occasions  they  became  the  buffoons  of  the 
regiment.  They  were  the  star  comics :  a  position  of 
great  responsibility  and  not  to  be  lightly  thought  of. 
An  officer  had  given  a  couple  of  rag-time  efforts;  the 
melancholy  corporal  in  C  Company  had  obliged  with 
a  maundering  tune  of  revolting  sentimentality,  and 
one  of  A  Company  scouts  had  given  a  so-called  comic 
which  caused  the  padre  to  keep  his  eyes  fixed  firmly 
on  the  floor,  though  at  times  his  mouth  twitched  sus- 
piciously, and  made  the  colonel  exclaim  to  his  second 
in  command  in  tones  of  heartfelt  relief :  "Thank 
Heavens,  my  wife  couldn't  come!"  Knowing  his 
commanding  officer's  wife  the  second  in  command 
agreed  in  no  less  heartfelt  voice. 

But  now  a  silence  had  settled  on  the  great  room: 
and  all  eyes  were  turned  on  the  regimental  sergeant- 
major,  who  was  standing  up  behind  the  table  on  which 
the  programme  lay,  and  behind  which  he  had  risen 
every  time  a  new  performer  had  appeared  during  the 
evening,  in  order  to  introduce  him  to  the  assembly. 
There  are  many  little  rites  and  ceremonies  in  smoking 
concerts.  .  .  . 

This  time,  however,  he  did  not  inform  the  audience 
that  Private  MacPherson  would  now  oblige — that  is 
the  mystic  formula.  He  stood  there,  waiting  for 
silence. 


2<5o  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

"Non-commissioned  officers  and  men" — his  voice 
carried  to  every  corner  of  the  building — "I  think 
you  will  all  agree  with  me  that  we  are  very  pleased 
to  see  Colonel  Johnson  and  all  our  officers  here  with 
us  to-night.  It  is  our  farewell  concert  in  England: 
in  a  few  days  we  shall  all  be  going — somewhere;  and 
it  gives  us  all  great  pleasure  to  welcome  the  officers 
who  are  going  to  lead  us  when  we  get  to  that  some- 
where. Therefore  I  ask  you  all  to  fill  up  your  glasses 
and  drink  to  the  health  of  Colonel  Johnson  and  all  our 
officers." 

A  shuffling  of  feet ;  an  abortive  attempt  on  the  part 
bf  the  pianist  to  strike  up  "For  he's  a  jolly  good 
fellow"  before  his  cue,  an  attempt  which  died  hor- 
ribly in  its  infancy  under  the  baleful  eye  of  the  ser- 
geant-major; a  general  creaking  and  grunting  and 
then — muttered,  shouted,  whispered  from  a  thousand 
throats — "Our  Officers."  The  pianist  started — right 
this  time — and  in  a  second  the  room  was  ringing  with 
the  well-known  words.  Cheers,  thunderous  cheers 
succeeded  it,  and  through  it  all  the  officers  sat  silent 
and  quiet.  Most  were  new  to  the  game ;  to  them  it  was 
just  an  interesting  evening;  a  few  were  old  at  it;  a 
few,  like  Jim,  had  been  across,  and  it  was  they  who 
had  a  slight  lump  in  their  throats.  It  brought  back 
memories — memories  of  other  men,  memories  of  simi- 
lar scenes. 


"THE  REGIMENT"  261 

At  last  the  cheering  died  away,  only  to  burst  out 
again  with  renewed  vigour.  The  colonel  was  standing 
up,  a  slight  smile  playing  round  his  lips,  the  glint  of 
many  things  in  his  quiet  grey  eyes.  To  the  second 
in  command,  a  sterling  soldier  but  one  of  little  imagi- 
nation, there  came  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  the 
meaning  of  the  phrase,  "the  windows  of  the  soul." 
For  in  the  eyes  of  the  man  who  stood  beside  him  he 
saw  those  things  of  which  no  man  speaks;  the  things 
which  words  may  kill. 

He  saw  understanding,  affection,  humour,  pain;  he 
saw  the  pride  of  possession  struggling  with  the  sorrow 
of  future  loss;  he  saw  the  desire  to  test  his  creation 
struggling  with  the  fear  that  a  first  test  always  brings ; 
he  saw  visions  of  glorious  possibilities,  and  for  a 
fleeting  instant  he  saw  the  dreadful  abyss  of  a  hideous 
failure.  Aye,  for  a  few  moments  the  second  in  com- 
mand looked  not  through  a  glass  darkly,  but  saw  into 
the  unplumbed  depths  of  a  man  who  had  been  weighed 
in  the  balance  and  not  found  wanting ;  a  man  who  had 
faced  responsibility  and  would  face  it  again;  a  man 
of  honour,  a  man  of  humour,  a  man  who  knew. 

"My  lads,"  he  began — and  the  quiet,  well-modulated 
voice  reached  every  man  in  the  room  just  as  clearly 
as  the  harsher  voice  of  the  previous  speaker — "as  the 
sergeant-major  has  just  said,  in  a  few  days  we  shall 
be  sailing  for — somewhere.  The  bustle  and  fulness 


262  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

of  your  training  life  will  be  over;  you  will  be  con- 
fronted with  the  real  thing.  And  though  I  do  not 
want  to  mar  the  pleasure  of  this  evening  in  any  way 
or  to  introduce  a  serious  tone  to  the  proceedings,  I 
do  want  to  say  just  one  or  two  things  which  may  stick 
in  your  minds  and,  perhaps,  on  some  occasion  may 
help  you.  This  war  is  not  a  joke;  it  is  one  of  the 
most  hideous  and  ghastly  tragedies  that  have  ever  been 
foisted  on  the  world;  I  have  been  there  and  I  know. 
You  are  going  to  be  called  on  to  stand  all  sorts  of 
discomfort  and  all  sorts  of  boredom;  there  will  be 
times  when  you'd  give  everything  you  possess  to  know 
that  there  was  a  picture-palace  round  the  corner.  You 
may  not  think  so  now,  but  remember  my  words  when 
the  time  comes — remember,  and  stick  it. 

"There  will  be  times  when  there's  a  sinking  in  your 
stomach  and  a  singing  in  your  head ;  when  men  beside 
you  are  staring  upwards  with  the  stare  that  does  not 
see;  when  the  sergeant  has  taken  it  through  the  fore- 
head and  the  nearest  officer  is  choking  up  his  life  in 
the  corner  of  the  traverse.  But — there's  still  your 
rifle ;  perhaps  there's  a  machine-gun  standing  idle ;  any- 
way, remember  my  words  then,  and  stick  it. 

"Stick  it,  my  lads,  as  those  others  have  done  before 
you.  Stick  it,  for  the  credit  of  the  regiment,  for  the 
glory  of  our  name.  Remember  always  that  that  glory 


"THE  REGIMENT"  263 

lies  in  your  hands,  each  one  of  you  individually.  And 
just  as  it  is  in  the  power  of  each  one  of  you  to  tarnish 
it  irreparably,  so  is  it  in  the  power  of  each  one  of  you 
to  keep  it  going  undimmed.  Each  one  of  us  counts, 
men" — his  voice  sank  a  little — "each  one  of  us  has 
to  play  the  game.  Not  because  we're  afraid  of  being 
punished  if  we're  found  out,  but  because  it  is  the 
game." 

He  looked  round  the  room  slowly,  almost  search- 
ingly,  while  the  arc  light  spluttered  and  then  burnt  up 
again  with  a  hiss. 

"The  Regiment,  my  lads — the  Regiment."  His 
voice  was  tense  with  feeling.  "It  is  only  the  Regiment 
that  counts." 

He  raised  his  glass,  and  the  men  stood  up : 

"The  Regiment." 

'A  woman  sobbed  somewhere  in  the  body  of  the 
gym.,  and  for  a  moment,  so  it  seemed  to  Denver,  the 
wings  of  Death  flapped  softly  against  the  windows. 
For  a  moment  only — and  then : 

"Private  Mulvaney  will  now  oblige." 

Jim  walked  slowly  home.  He  remembered  just  such 
another  evening  before  his  own  battalion  went  out. 
Would  those  words  of  the  Colonel  have  their  effect: 
would  some  white-faced  man  stick  it  the  better  for  the 
remembrance  of  that  moment :  would  some  machine- 


264  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

gun  fired  with  trembling  dying  hands  take  its  toll? 
Perhaps — who  knows?  The  ideal  of  the  soldier  is 
there — the  ideal  towards  which  the  New  Armies  are 
led.  Thus  the  first  incident. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  CONTRAST 

fT^HE  following  afternoon  Denver,  strolling  back 
A  from  the  town,  was  hailed  by  a  man  in  khaki, 
standing  in  the  door  of  his  house.  He  knew  the  man 
well,  Vane,  by  name — had  dined  with  him  often  in 
the  days  when  he  was  in  training  himself.  A  quiet 
man,  with  a  pleasant  wife  and  two  children.  Vane 
was  a  stock-broker  by  trade :  and  just  before  Jim  went 
out  he  had  enlisted. 

"Come  in  and  have  a  gargle.  I've  just  got  back  on 
short  leave."  Vane  came  to  the  gate. 

"Good,"  Jim  answered.  "Mrs.  Vane  must  be 
pleased."  They  strolled  up  the  drive  and  in  through 
the  door.  "You're  looking  very  fit,  old  man.  Flan- 
ders seems  to  suit  you." 

"My  dear  fellow,  it  does.  It's  the  goods.  I  never 
knew  what  living  was  before.  The  thought  of  that 
cursed  office  makes  me  tired — and  once" — he  shrugged 
his  shoulders — "it  filled  my  life.  Say  when." 

"Cheer  oh!"  They  clinked  glasses.  "I  thought 
you  were  taking  a  commission." 

265 


266  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

"I  am — very  shortly.  The  colonel  has  recom- 
mended me  for  one,  and  I  gather  the  powers  that  be 
approve.  But  in  a  way  I'm  sorry,  you  know.  I've 
got  a  great  pal  in  my  section — who  kept  a  whelk  stall 
down  in  Whitechapel." 

"They're  the  sort,"  laughed  Jim.  "The  Cockney 
takes  some  beating." 

"This  bird's  a  flier.  We  had  quite  a  cheery  little 
show  the  other  night,  just  him  and  me.  About  a  week 
ago  we  were  up  in  the  trenches — bored  stiff,  and  yet 
happy  in  a  way,  you  know,  when  Master  Boche  started 
to  register.1  I  suppose  it  was  a  new  battery  or  some- 
thing, but  they  were  using  crumps,  not  shrapnel.  They 
weren't  very  big,  but  they  were  very  close — and  they 
got  closer.  You  know  that  nasty  droning  noise,  then 
the  hell  of  an  explosion — that  great  column  of  black- 
ish yellow  smoke,  and  the  bits  pinging  through  the  air 
overhead." 

"I  do,"  remarked  Jim  tersely. 

Vane  laughed.    "Well,  he  got  a  bracket ;  the  first  one 

1  For  the  benefit  of  the  uninitiated,  let  me  explain  that 
the  process  of  registering  consists  of  finding  the  exact 
range  to  a  certain  object  from  a  particular  gun  or  battery. 
To  find  this  range  it  is  necessary  to  obtain  what  is  known 
as  a  bracket:  i.e.  one  burst  beyond  the  object,  and  one 
burst  short.  The  range  is  then  known  to  lie  between 
these  two:  and  by  a  little  adjustment  the  exact  distance 
can  be  found. 


THE  CONTRAST  267 

was  fifty  yards  short  of  the  trench,  and  the  second 
was  a  hundred  yards  over.  Then  he  started  to  come 
back — always  in  the  same  line;  and  the  line  passed 
straight  through  our  bit  of  the  trench. 

'  'Ere,  wot  yer  doing,  you  perishers  ?  Sargint,  go 
and  stop  'em.  Tell  'em  I've  been  appointed  purveyor 
of  winkles  to  the  Royal  'Ouse  of  the  'Uh  Emperor.' 
Our  friend  of  the  whelk  stall  was  surveying  the  scene 
with  intense  disfavour.  A  great  mass  of  smoke  belched 
up  from  the  ground  twenty  yards  away,  and  he  ducked 
instinctively.  Then  we  waited — fifteen  seconds  about 
was  the  interval  between  shots.  The  men  were  a  bit 
white  about  the  gills — and,  well  the  feeling  in  the  pit 
of  my  tummy  was  what  is  known  as  wobbly.  You 
know  that  feeling  too?" 

"I  do,"  remarked  Jim  even  more  tersely. 

Vane  finished  his  drink.  "Then  it  came,  and  we 
cowered.  There  was  a  roar  like  nothing  on  earth — 
the  back  of  the  trench  collapsed,  and  the  whole  lot 
of  us  were  buried.  If  the  shell  had  been  five  yards 
short,  it  would  have  burst  in  the  trench,  and  my  whelk 
friend  would  have  whelked  no  more." 

Vane  laughed.  "We  emerged,  plucking  mud  from 
our  mouths,  and  cursed.  The  Hun  apparently  was 
satisfied  and  stopped.  The  only  person  who  wasn't 
satisfied  was  the  purveyor  of  winkles  to  the  Royal 


268  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

'Ouse.     He  brooded  through  the  day,  but  towards 
the  evening  he  became  more  cheerful. 

"  'Look  'ere/  he  said  to  me,  '  'ave  you  ever  killed 
a'Un?' 

"  'I  think  I  did  once/  I  said.  'A  fat  man  with  a 
nasty  face/ 

"  'Oh!  you  'ave,  'ave  you?  Well,  wot  abaht  killing 
one  to-night.  If  they  thinks  I'm  going  to  stand  that 
sort  of  thing,  they're  wrong.'  The  lan- 
guage was  the  language  of  Whitechapel,  but  the  senti- 
ments were  the  sentiments  of  even  the  most  rabid 
purist  of  speech. 

"To  cut  a  long  story  short,  we  went.  And  we  were 
very  lucky." 

"You  bumped  your  face  into  'em,  did  you?"  asked 
Jim,  interested. 

"We  did.  Man,  it  was  a  grand  little  scrap  while  it 
lasted,  and  it  was  the  first  one  I'd  had.  It  won't  be 
the  last." 

"Did  you  kill  your  men  ?" 

"Did  we  not?    Welks  brained  his  with  the  butt  of 
his  gun;  and  I  did  the  trick  with  a  bayonet."    Vane| 
became  a  little  apologetic.    "You  know  it  was  only  my ' 
first,  and  I  can't  get  it  out  of  my  mind."    Then  his 
eyes  shone  again.     "To  feel  that  steel  go  in — Good 
God !  man — it  was  IT :  it  was  ..." 

Then  came  the  interruption.    "Dear,"  said  a  voice 


THE  CONTRAST  269 

at  the  door,  "the  children  are  in  bed;  will  you  go  up 
and  say  good  night."  .  .  .  Thus  the  second  inci- 
dent. .  .  . 

As  I  said,  taken  separately  the  two  incidents  mean 
but  little :  taken  together — there  is  humour :  the  whole 
humour  of  war. 

An  itinerant  fishmonger  and  a  worthy  stockbroker 
are  inculcated  with  wonderful  ideals  in  order  to  fit 
them  for  sallying  forth  at  night  and  killing  complete 
strangers.  And  they  revel  in  it.  ... 

The  highest  form  of  emotionalism  on  one  hand :  a 
hole  in  the  ground  full  of  bluebottles  and  smells  on 
the  other.  .  .  . 

War  .  .  .  war  in  the  twentieth  century. 

But  there  is  nothing  incompatible  in  it :  it  is  only 
strange  when  analysed  in  cold  blood.  And  Jim  Den- 
ver, as  I  have  said,  was  sane  again:  while  Vane,  the 
stockbroker,  was  still  mad. 

In  fact,  it  is  quite  possible  that  the  peculiar  signifi- 
cance of  the  interruption  in  his  story  never  struck  him : 
that  he  never  noticed  the  Contrast. 

And  what  is  going  to  be  the  result  of  it  all  on  the 
Vanes  of  England?  "Once  the  office  filled  my  life." 
No  man  can  go  to  the  land  of  Topsy  Turvy  and  come 
back  the  same — for  good  or  ill  it  will  change  him. 
Though  the  madness  leave  him  and  sanity  return,  it 


270  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

will  not  be  the  same  sanity.  Will  he  ever  be  content 
to  settle  down  again  after — the  lawyer,  the  stock- 
broker, the  small  clerk  ?  Back  to  the  old  dull  routine, 
the  same  old  train  in  the  morning,  the  same  deadly 
office,  the  same  old  home  each  evening.  It  hardly  ap- 
plies to  the  Jim  Denvers — the  men  of  money :  but  what 
of  the  others  ? 

Will  the  scales  have  dropped  from  the  eyes  of  the 
men  who  have  really  been  through  it?  Shall  we  ever 
get  back  to  the  same  old  way?  Heaven  knows — but 
let  us  hope  not.  Anyway,  it  is  all  mere  idle  conjecture 
— and  a  digression  to  boot. 


CHAPTER  VI 

BLACK,  WHITE,  AND GREY 

FOUR  weeks  after  his  board  Jim  Denver  once 
again  found  himself  in  France. 

Having  reported  his  arrival,  he  sat  down  to  await 
orders.  Boulogne  is  not  a  wildly  exhilarating  place; 
though  there  is  always  the  hotel  where  one  may  con- 
sume cocktails  and  potato  chips,  and  hear  strange 
truths  about  the  war  from  people  of  great  knowledge 
and  understanding. 

Moreover — though  this  is  by  the  way — in  Boulogne 
you  get  the  first  sniff  of  that  atmosphere  which  Eng- 
land lacks;  that  subtle,  indefinable  something  which 
war  in  a  country  produces  in  the  spirit  of  its  peo- 
ple. .  .  . 

Gone  is  the  stout  lady  of  doubtful  charm  engaged  in 
mastering  the  fox-trot,  what  time  a  band  wails  dis- 
mally in  an  alcove;  gone  is  the  wild-eyed  flapper  who 
bumps  madly  up  and  down  the  roads  on  the  carrier 
of  a  motor-cycle.  It  has  an  atmosphere  of  its  own  this 
fair  land  of  France  to-day.  It  is  laughing  through  its 
tears,  and  the  laughter  has  an  ugly  sound — for  the 

271 


272  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

Huns.  They  will  hear  that  laughter  soon,  and  the 
sound  will  give  them  to  think  fearfully. 

But  at  the  moment  when  Jim  landed  it  was  all  very 
boring.  The  R.T.O.  at  Boulogne  was  bored;  the 
A.S.C.  officers  at  railhead  were  bored;  the  quarter- 
master guarding  the  regimental  penates  in  a  field  west 
of  Ypres  was  bored. 

"Cheer  up,  old  son/'  Jim  remarked,  slapping  the 
last-named  worthy  heavily  on  the  back.  "You  look 
peevish." 

"Confound  you,"  he  gasped,  when  he'd  recovered 
from  choking.  "This  is  my  last  bottle  of  whisky." 

"Where's  the  battalion?"  laughed  Denver. 

"Where  d'you  think  ?  In  a  Turkish  bath  surrounded 
by  beauteous  houris?"  the  quartermaster  snorted^ 
"Still  in  the  same  damn  mud-hole  near  Hooge." 

"Good !  I'll  trot  along  up  shortly.  You  know,  I'm 
beginning  to  be  glad  I  came  back.  I  didn't  want  to 
particularly,  at  first :  I  was  enjoying  myself  at  home — • 

but  I  felt  I  ought  to,  and  now — 'pon  my  soul • 

How  are  you,  Jones?" 

A  passing  sergeant  stopped  and  saluted.  "Grand, 
sir.  How's  yourself?  The  boys  will  be  glad  you've 
come  back." 

Denver  stood  chatting  with  him  for  a  few  moments 
and  then  rejoined  the  pessimistic  quartermaster. 

"Don't   rhapsodise,"   begged   that   worthy— "don't 


BLACK,  WHITE,  AND— GREY  273 

rhapsodise;  eat  your  lunch.  If  you  tell  me  it  will  be 
good  to  see  your  men  again,  I  shall  assault  you'  with 
the  remnants  of  the  tinned  lobster.  I  know  it  will  be 
good — no  less  than  fifteen  officers  have  told  me  so  in 
the  last  six  weeks.  But  I  don't  care — it  leaves  me 
quite,  quite  cold.  If  you're  in  France,  you  pine  for 
England;  when  you're  in  England,  you  pine  for 
France ;  and  I  sit  in  this  damn  field  and  get  giddy." 
Which  might  be  described  as  to-day's  great  thought. 

Thus  did  Jim  Denver  come  back  to  his  regiment. 
Once  again  the  life  of  the  moles  claimed  him — the  life 
of  the  underworld:  that  strange  existence  of  which  so 
much  has  been  written,  and  so  little  has  been  really 
grasped  by  those  who  have  not  been  there.  A  life  of 
incredible  dreariness — yet  possessing  a  certain  "grip" 
of  its  own.  A  life  of  peculiar  contrasts — where  the 
suddenness — the  abruptness  of  things  strikes  a  man 
forcibly:  the  extraordinary  contrasts  of  black  and 
white.  Sometimes  they  stand  out  stark  and  menacing, 
gleaming  and  brilliant;  more  often  do  they  merge  into 
grey.  But  always  are  they  there.  .  .  . 

As  I  said  before,  my  object  is  not  to  give  a  diary  of 
my  hero's  life.  I  am  not  concerned  with  his  daily 
vegetation  in  his  particular  hole,  with  Hooge  on  his 
right  front  and  a  battered  farm  close  to.  Sleep,  eat, 
read,  look  through  a  periscope  and  then  repeat  the  per- 


274  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

formance.  Occasionally  an  aerial  torpedo,  frequently 
bombs,  at  all  times  pessimistic  sappers  desiring  work- 
ing parties.  But  it  was  very  much  the  "grey"  of  trench 
life  during  the  three  days  that  Jim  sat  in  the  front  line 
by  the  wood  that  is  called  "Railway." 

One  episode  is  perhaps  worthy  of  note.  It  was  just 
one  of  those  harmless  little  jests  which  give  one  an 
appetite  for  a  hunk  of  bully  washed  down  by  a  glass 
of  tepid  whisky  and  water.  Now  be  it  known  to 
those  who  do  not  dabble  in  explosives,  there  are  in 
the  army  two  types  of  fuze  which  are  used  for  firing 
charges.  Each  type  is  flexible,  and  about  the  thick- 
ness of  a  stout  and  well-nourished  worm.  Each,  more- 
over, consists  of  an  inner  core  which  burns,  protected 
by  an  outer  covering — the  idea  being  that  on  lighting 
one  end  a  flame  should  pass  along  the  burning  inner 
core  and  explode  in  due  course  whatever  is  at  the 
other  end.  There,  however,  their  similarity  ends ;  and 
their  difference  becomes  so  marked  that  the  kindly 
powers  that  be  have  taken  great  precautions  against 
the  two  being  confused. 

The  first  of  these  fuzes  is  called  Safety — and  the 
outer  covering  is  black.  In  this  type  the  inner  core 
burns  quite  slowly  at  the  rate  of  two  or  three  feet  to 
the  minute.  This  is  the  fuze  which  is  used  in  the 
preparation  of  the  jam-tin  bomb:  an  instrument  of 
•destruction  which  has  caused  much  amusement  to  the 


BLACK,  WHITE,  AND— GREY  275 

frivolous.  A  jam  tin  is  taken  and  is  filled  with  gun 
cotton,  nails,  and  scraps  of  iron.  Into  the  gun  cot- 
ton is  inserted  a  detonator;  and  into  the  detonator  is 
inserted  two  inches  of  safety-fuze.  The  end  of  the 
safety-fuze  is  then  lit,  and  the  jam  tin  is  presented 
to  the  Hun.  It  will  readily  be  seen  by  those  who  are 
profound  mathematicians,  that  if  three  feet  of  safety- 
fuze  burn  in  a  minute,  two  inches  will  burn  in  about 
three  seconds — and  three  seconds  is  just  long  enough 
for  the  presentation  ceremony.  This  in  fact  is  the 
principal  of  all  bombs  both  great  and  small. 

The  second  of  these  fuzes  is  called  Instantaneous — 
and  the  outer  covering  is  orange.  In  this  type  the 
inner  core  burns  quite  quickly,  at  the  rate  of  some 
thirty  yards  to  the  second,  or  eighteen  hundred  times 
as  fast  as  the  first.  Should,  therefore,  an  unwary  per- 
son place  two  inches  of  this  second  fuze  in  his  jam  tin 
by  mistake,  and  light  it,  it  will  take  exactly  one-6ooth 
of  a  second  before  he  gets  to  the  motto.  Which  is 
"movement  with  a  meaning  quite  its  own." 

To  Jim  then  came  an  idea.  Why  not  with  care  and 
great  cunning  remove  from  the  inner  core  of  In- 
stantaneous fuze  its  vulgar  orange  covering,  and  sub- 
stitute instead  a  garb  of  sober  black — and  thus  dis- 
guised present  several  bombs  of  great  potency  un- 
lighted  to  the  Hun. 

The   afternoon  before   they   left   for   the    reserve 


276  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

trenches  he  staged  his  comedy  in  one  act  and  an  epi- 
logue. A  shower  of  bombs  was  propelled  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  opposing  cave-dwellers  to  the  accompani- 
ment of  loud  cries,  cat  calls,  and  other  strange  noises. 
The  true  artist  never  exaggerates,  and  quite  half  the 
bombs  had  genuine  safety-fuze  in  them  and  were  lit 
before  being  thrown.  The  remainder  were  not  lit,  it 
is  perhaps  superfluous  to  add. 

The  lazy  peace  of  the  afternoon  was  rudely  shat- 
tered for  the  Huns.  Quite  a  number  of  genuine  bombs 
had  exploded  dangerously  near  their  trench — while 
some  had  even  taken  effect  in  the  trench.  Then  they 
perceived  several  unlit  ones  lying  about — evidently  pro- 
pelled by  nervous  men  who  had  got  rid  of  them  be- 
fore lighting  them  properly.  And  there  was  much 
laughter  in  that  German  trench  as  they  decided  to  give 
the  epilogue  by  lighting  them  and  throwing  them  back. 
Shortly  after  a  series  of  explosions,  followed  by  howls 
and  groans,  announced  the  carrying  out  of  that  de- 
cision. And  once  again  the  Hymn  of  Hate  came 
faintly  through  the  drowsy  stillness.  .  .  . 

Those  are  the  little  things  which  occasionally  paint 
jthe  grey  with  a  dab  of  white;  the  prowls  at  night — 
the  joys  of  the  sniper  who  has  just  bagged  a  winner 
and  won  the  bag  of  nuts — all  help  to  keep  the  spirits 
up  when  the  pattern  of  earth  in  your  particular  hole 
causes  a  rush  of  blood  to  the  head. 


BLACK,  WHITE,  AND— GREY  277 

Incidentally  this  little  comedy  was  destined  to  be 
Jim  Denver's  last  experience  of  the  Hun  at  close  quar- 
ters for  many  weeks  to  come.  The  grey  settled  down 
like  a  pall,  to  lift  in  the  fulness  of  time,  to  the  black 
and  white  day  of  his  life.  But  for  the  present — peace. 
And  yet  only  peace  as  far  as  he  was  concerned  per- 
sonally. That  very  night,  close  to  him  so  that  he  saw 
it  all,  some  other  battalions  had  a  chequered  hour  or 
so — which  is  all  in  the  luck  of  the  game.  To-day  it's 
the  man  over  the  road — to-morrow  it's  you.  .  .  . 

They  occurred  about  2  a.m. — the  worries  of  the  men 
over  the  road.  Denver  had  moved  to  his  other  hole, 
courteously  known  as  the  reserve  trenches,  and  there 
seated  in  his  dug-out  he  discussed  prospects  generally 
with  the  Major.  There  were  rumours  that  the  di- 
vision was  moving  from  Ypres,  and  not  returning 
there — a  thought  which  would  kindle  hope  in  the  most 
pessimistic. 

"Don't  you  believe  it,"  answered  the  Major  gloom- 
ily. "Those  rumours  are  an  absolute  frost." 

"Cheer  up!  cully,  we'll  soon  be  dead."  Denver 
laughed.  "Have  some  rum." 

He  poured  some  out  into  a  mug  and  passed  the 
water.  "Quiet  to-night — isn't  it?  I  was  reading  to- 
day that  the  Italians " 

"You  aren't  going  to  quote  any  war  expert  at  me, 
are  you?" 


278  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

"Well — er — I  was:  why  not?" 

"Because  I  have  a  blood-feud  with  war  experts.  I 
loathe  and  detest  the  breed.  Before  I  came  out  here 
their  reiterated  statement  made  monthly  that  we  should 
be  on  the  Rhine  by  Tuesday  fortnight  was  a  real  com- 
fort. We  always  got  to  Tuesday  fortnight — but  we've 
never  actually  paddled  in  the  bally  river." 

"To  err  is  human ;  to  get  paid  for  it  is  divine,"  mur- 
mured Jim. 

"Bah!"  the  Major  rilled  his  pipe  aggressively. 
"What  about  the  steam-roller,  what  about  the  Ger- 
mans being  reduced  to  incurable  epileptics  in  the  third 
line  trenches — what  about  that  drivelling  ass  who  said 
the  possession  of  heavy  guns  was  a  disadvantage  to 
an  army  owing  to  their  immobility?" 

"Have  some  more  rum,  sir?"  remarked  Jim  sooth- 
ingly. 

"But  I  could  have  stood  all  that — they  were  trifles." 
The  Major  was  getting  warmed  up  to  it.  "This  is 
what  finished  me."  He  pulled  a  piece  of  paper  out  of 
his  pocket.  "Read  that,  my  boy — read  that  and  pon- 
der." 

Jim  took  the  paper  and  glanced  at  it. 

"I  carry  that  as  my  talisman.  In  the  event  of  my 
death  I've  given  orders  for  it  to  be  sent  to  the  author." 

"But  what's  it  all  about?"  asked  Denver. 

"  'At  the  risk  of  repeating  myself,  I  wish  again  to 


BLACK,  WHITE,  AND— GREY  279 

asseverate  what  I  drew  especial  attention  to  last  week, 
and  the  week  before,  and  the  one  before  that;  as  a 
firm  grasp  of  this  essential  fact  is  imperative  to  an  un- 
distorted  view  of  the  situation.  Whatever  minor  facts 
may  now  or  again  crop  up  in  this  titanic  conflict,  we 
must  not  shut  our  eyes  to  the  rules  of  war.  They  are 
unchangeable,  immutable ;  the  rules  of  Caesar  were  the 
rules  of  Napoleon,  and  are  in  fact  the  rules  that  I 
myself  have  consistently  laid  down  in  these  columns. 
They  cannot  change :  this  war  will  be  decided  by  them 
as  surely  as  night  follows  day ;  and  those  ignorant  per- 
sons who  are  permitted  to  express  their  opinions  else- 
where would  do  well  to  remember  that  simple  fact.' 

"What  the  devil  is  this  essential  fact?" 

"Would  you  like  to  know?  I  got  to  it  after  two 
columns  like  that." 

"What  was  it?"  laughed  Jim. 

"  'An  obstacle  in  an  army's  path  is  that  which  ob- 
structs the  path  of  the  army  in  question.' ' 

"After  that — more  rum."  Jim  solemnly  decanted 
the  liquid.  "You  deserve  it.  You  .  .  ." 

"Stand  to."  A  shout  from  the  trench  outside — re- 
peated all  along  until  it  died  away  in  the  distance.  The 
Major  gulped  his  rum  and  dived  for  the  door — while 
Jim  groped  for  his  cap.  Suddenly  out  of  the  still 
night  there  came  a  burst  of  firing,  sudden  and  furious. 
The  firing  was  taken  up  all  along  the  line,  and  then 


280  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

the  guns  started  and  a  rain  of  shrapnel  came  down  be- 
hind the  British  lines. 

Away — a  bit  in  front  on  the  other  side  of  the  road 
to  Jim's  trench  there  were  woods — woods  of  unen- 
viable reputation.  Hence  the  name  of  "Sanctuary." 
In  the  middle  of  them,  on  the  road,  lay  the  ruined 
chateau  and  village  of  Hooge — also  of  unenviable 
reputation. 

And  towards  these  woods  the  eyes  of  all  were 
turned. 

"What  the  devil  is  it  ?"  shouted  the  man  beside  Jim. 
"Look  at  them  lights  in  the  trees." 

The  devil  it  was.  Dancing  through  the  darkness  of 
the  trees  were  flames  and  flickering  lights,  like  will- 
o'-the-wisps  playing  over  an  Irish  bog.  And  men, 
looking  at  one  another,  muttered  sullenly.  They  re- 
membered the  gas;  what  new  devilry  was  this? 

Up  in  the  woods  things  were  moving.  Hardly  had 
the  relieving  regiments  taken  over  their  trenches,  when 
from  the  ground  in  front  there  seemed  to  leap  a  wall 
of  flame.  It  rushed  towards  them  and,  falling  into  the 
trenches  and  on  to  the  men's  clothes,  burnt  furiously 
like  brandy  round  a  plum  pudding.  The  woods  were4 
full  of  hurrying  figures  dashing  blindly  about,  cursing 
and  raving.  For  a  space  pandemonium  reigned.  The 
Germans  came  on,  and  it  looked  as  if  there  might  be 
trouble.  The  regiments  who  had  just  been  relieved 


BLACK,  WHITE,  AND— GREY  281 

came  back,  and  after  a  while  things  straightened  out 
a  little.  But  our  front  trenches  in  those  woods,  when 
morning  broke,  were  not  where  they  had  been  the 
previous  night.  .  .  . 

Liquid  fire — yet  one  more  invention  of  "Kultur"; 
gas;  the  moat  at  Ypres  poisoned  with  arsenic;  cruci- 
fixion ;  burning  death  squirted  from  the  black  night — 
suddenly,  without  warning :  truly  a  great  array  of  Kul- 
tured  triumphs.  .  .  .  And  with  it  all — failure.  To 
fight  as  a  sportsman  fights  and  lose  has  many  com- 
pensations ;  to  fight  as  the  German  fights  and  lose  must 
be  to  taste  of  the  dregs  of  hell. 

But  that  is  how  they  do  fight,  whatever  interesting 
surmises  one  may  make  of  their  motives  and  feelings. 
And  that  is  how  it  goes  on  over  the  water — the  funny 
mixture  of  the  commonplace  of  everyday  with  the 
great  crude,  cruel  realities  of  life  and  death. 

But  as  I  said,  for  the  next  few  weeks  the  grey  screen 
cloaked  those  crude  realities  as  far  as  Jim  was  con- 
cerned. Rumour  for  once  had  proved  true;  the  di- 
vision was  pulled  out,  and  his  battalion  found  itself 
near  Poperinghe. 

"Months  of  boredom  punctuated  by  moments  of  in- 
tense fright"  is  a  definition  of  war  which  undoubtedly 
Noah  would  have  regarded  as  a  chestnut.  And  I 


282  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

should  think  it  doubtful  if  there  has  ever  been  a  war 
in  which  this  definition  was  more  correct. 

Jim  route  marched :  he  trained  bombers :  he  dined 
in  Poperinghe  and  went  to  the  Follies.  Also,  he  al- 
lowed other  men  to  talk  to  him  of  their  plans  for  leave : 
than  which  no  more  beautiful  form  of  unselfishness  is 
laid  down  anywhere  in  the  Law  or  the  Prophets. 

On  the  whole  the  time  did  not  drag.  There  is  much 
of  interest  for  those  who  have  eyes  to  see  in  that  coun- 
try which  fringes  the  Cock  Pit  of  Europe.  Hacking 
round  quietly  most  afternoons  on  a  horse  borrowed 
from  someone,  the  spirit  of  the  land  got  into  him,  that 
blood-soaked,  quiet,  uncomplaining  country,  whose 
soul  rises  unconquerable  from  the  battered  ruins. 

Horses  exercising,  lorries  crashing  and  lurching  over 
the  pave  roads.  G.S.  wagons  at  the  walk,  staff  motors 
— all  the  necessary  wherewithal  to  preserve  the  safety 
of  the  mud  holes  up  in  front — came  and  went  in  a 
ceaseless  procession ;  while  every  now  and  then  a  local 
cart  with  mattresses  and  bedsteads,  tables  and  crock- 
ery, tied  on  perilously  with  bits  of  string,  would  come 
creaking  past — going  into  the  unknown,  leaving  the 
home  of  years. 

Ypres,  that  tragic  charnel  house,  with  the  great 
jagged  holes  torn  out  of  the  pave;  with  the  few  re- 
maining walls  of  the  Cathedral  and  Cloth  Hall  cracked 
and  leaning  outwards;  with  the  strange  symbolical 


BLACK,  WHITE,  AND—GREY  283 

touch  of  the  black  hearse  which  stood  untouched  in 
one  of  the  arches.  Rats  everywhere,  in  the  sewers  and 
broken  walls;  in  the  crumbling  belfry  above  birds, 
cawing  discordantly.  The  statue  of  the  old  gentleman 
which  used  to  stand  serene  and  calm  amidst  the  wreck- 
age, now  lay  broken  on  its  face.  But  the  stench  was 
gone — the  dreadful  stench  of  death  which  had  clothed 
it  during  the  second  battle;  it  was  just  a  dead  town — 
dead  and  decently  buried  in  great  heaps  of  broken 
brick.  .  .  . 

Vlamertinghe,  with  the  little  plot  of  wooden  crosses 
by  the  cross  roads;  Elverdinghe,  where  the  gas  first 
came,  and  the  organ  pipes  lay  twisted  in  the  wreckage 
of  the  unroofed  church;  where  the  long  row  of  French 
graves  rest  against  the  chateau  wall,  graves  covered 
with  long  grass — each  with  an  empty  bottle  upside 
down  at  their  head. 

And  when  Thyself  with  shining  Foot  shall  pass 
Among  the  Guests  star-scatter'd  on  the  Grass, 
turn  down  an  empty  Glass. 

And  in  the  family  archives  are  some  excellent  re- 
productions— not  photographs  of  course,  for  the  pen- 
alty for  carrying  a  camera  is  death  at  dawn — of  ruined 
churches  and  shell-battered  chateaux.  Perhaps  the 
most  interesting  one,  at  any  rate  the  most  human,  is  a 


284  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

"reproduction"  of  a  group  of  cavalry  men.  They  had 
been  digging  in  a  little  village  a  mile  behind  the  firing- 
line — a  village  battered  and  dead  from  which  the  in- 
habitants had  long  since  fled.  Working  in  the  garden 
of  the  local  doctor,  they  were  digging  a  trench  which 
ran  back  to  the  cellar  of  the  house,  when  on  the  scene 
of  operations  had  suddenly  appeared  the  doctor  him- 
self. By  signs  he  possessed  himself  of  a  shovel,  and, 
pacing  five  steps  from  the  kitchen  door  and  three  from 
the  tomato  frame,  he  too  started  to  dig. 

"His  wife's  portrait,  probably,"  confided  the  cavalry 
officer  to  Jim,  as  they  watched  the  proceeding.  "Or 
possibly  an  urn  with  her  ashes." 

It  was  a  sergeant  who  first  gave  a  choking  cry  and 
fainted ;  he  was  nearest  the  hole. 

"Yes,"  remarked  Jim,  "he's  found  the  urn." 

With  frozen  stares  they  watched  the  last  of  twelve 
dozen  of  light  beer  go  into  the  doctor's  cart.  With 
pallid  lips  the  officer  saw  three  dozen  of  good  cham- 
pagne snatched  from  under  his  nose. 

"Heavens!  man,"  he  croaked,  "it  was  dry  too.  If 
our  trench  had  been  a  yard  that  way.  ..."  He  leant 
heavily  on  his  stick,  and  groaned. 

The  moment  was  undoubtedly  pregnant  with  emo- 
tion. 

"  'E'ad  a  nasty  face,  that  man — a  nasty  face.  Oh, 
'orrible." 


BLACK,  WHITE,  AND— GREY  285 

Hushed  voices  came  from  the  group  of  leaner s.  The 
"reproduction"  depicts  the  psychological  moment  when 
the  doctor  with  a  joyous  wave  of  the  hand  wished  them 
"Bonjour,  messieurs''  and  drove  off. 

"Not  one — not  one  ruddy  bottle — not  the  smell  of  a 
perishing  cork.  Stung !" 

But  Jim  had  left. 

Which  very  silly  and  frivolous  story  is  topsy-turvy 
land  up  to  date,  or  at  any  rate  typical  of  a  large  bit 
of  it. 


CHAPTER  VII 

ARCHIE  AND  OTHERS 

HOWEVER,  to  be  serious.  It  was  as  he  came 
away  from  this  scene  of  alarm  and  despondency 
that  Jim  met  an  old  pal  who  boasted  the  gunner  badge, 
and  whom  conversation  revealed  as  the  proud  owner 
of  an  Archie,  or  anti-aircraft  gun.  And  as  the  salient 
is  perhaps  more  fruitful  in  aeroplanes  than  any  other 
part  of  the  line,  and  the  time  approached  five  o'clock 
(which  is  generally  the  hour  of  their  afternoon  activ- 
ity), Jim  went  to  see  the  fun. 

In  front,  an  observing  biplane  buzzed  slowly  to  and 
fro,  watching  the  effect  of  a  mother  1  shooting  at  some 
mark  behind  the  German  lines.  With  the  gun  con- 
cealed in  the  trees,  a  gunner  subaltern  altered  his  range 
and  direction  as  each  curt  wireless  message  flashed 
from  the  'plane.  "Lengthen  200 — half  a  degree  left." 
And  so  on  till  they  got  it.  Occasionally,  with  a  vicious 
crack,  a  German  anti-aircraft  shell  would  explode  in 
the  air  above  in  a  futile  endeavour  to  reach  the  ob- 
server, and  a  great  mass  of  acrid  yellow  or  black  fumes 
would  disperse  slowly.  Various  machines,  each  intent 
on  its  own  job,  rushed  to  and  fro,  and  in  the  distance, 

1  9  -2"  Howitzer. 
287 


288  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

like  a  speck  in  the  sky,  a  German  monoplane  was 
travelling  rapidly  back  over  its  own  lines,  having  fin- 
ished its  reconnaissance. 

Behind  it,  like  the  wake  of  a  steamer,  little  dabs  of 
white  plastered  the  blue  sky.  English  shrapnel  burst- 
ing from  other  anti-aircraft  guns.  Jim's  gunner  friend 
seemed  to  know  most  of  them  by  name,  as  old  pals 
whom  he  had  watched  for  many  a  week  on  the  same 
errand;  and  from  him  Jim  gathered  that  the  moment 
approached  for  the  appearance  of  Panting  Lizzie.  Liz- 
zie, apparently,  was  a  fast  armoured  German  biplane 
which  came  over  his  gun  every  fine  evening  about  the 
same  hour.  For  days  and  weeks  had  he  fired  at  it, 
so  far  without  any  success,  but  he  still  had  hopes.  The 
gun  was  ready,  cocked  wickedly  upon  its  motor  mount- 
ing, covered  with  branches  and  daubed  with  strange 
blotches  of  paint  to  make  it  less  conspicuous.  Round 
the  motor  itself  the  detachment  consumed  tea,  a  ter- 
rier sat  up  and  begged,  a  goat  of  fearsome  aspect 
looked  pensive.  In  front,  in  a  chair,  his  eye  glued  to 
a  telescope  on  a  tripod,  sat  the  look-out  man. 

It  was  just  as  Jim  and  his  pal  were  getting  down 
to  a  whisky  and  soda  that  Lizzie  hove  in  sight.  The 
terrier  ceased  to  beg,  the  goat  departed  hurriedly,  the 
officer  spoke  rapidly  in  a  language  incomprehensible 
to  Jim,  and  the  fun  began.  There  are  few  things  so 


ARCHIE  AND  OTHERS  289 

trying  to  listen  to  as  an  Archie,  owing  to  the  rapidity 
with  which  it  fires ;  the  gun  pumps  up  and  down  with 
a  series  of  sharp  cracks,  every  two  or  three  shots  be- 
ing followed  by  more  incomprehensible  language  from 
the  officer.  Adjustment  after  each  shot  is  impossible 
owing  to  the  fact  that  three  or  four  shells  have  left 
the  gun  and  are  on  their  way  before  the  first  one  ex- 
plodes. It  was  while  Jim,  with  his  fingers  in  his  ears, 
was  watching  the  shells  bursting  round  the  aeroplane 
and  marvelling  that  nothing  seemed  to  happen,  that 
he  suddenly  realised  that  the  gun  had  stopped  firing. 
Looking  at  the  detachment,  he  saw  them  all  gazing 
upwards.  From  high  up,  sounding  strangely  faint  in 
the  air,  came  the  zipping  of  a  Maxim. 

"By  Gad  I"  muttered  the  gunner  officer ;  "this  is  go- 
ing to  be  some  fight." 

Bearing  down  on  Panting  Lizzie  came  a  British  ar- 
moured 'plane,  and  from  it  the  Maxim  was  spitting. 
And  now  there  started  a  very  pretty  air  duel.  I  am  no 
airman,  to  tell  of  spirals,  and  glides,  and  the  multi- 
farious twistings  and  turnings.  At  times  the  Ger- 
man's Maxim  got  going  as  well;  at  times  both  were 
silent,  manoeuvring  for  position.  The  Archies  were 
not  firing — the  machines  were  too  close  together.  Once 
the  German  seemed  to  drop  like  a  stone  for  a  thousand 
feet  or  so.  "Got  him !"  shouted  Jim — but  the  gunner 
shook  his  head. 


290  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

"A  common  trick,"  he  answered.  "He  found  it  get- 
ting a  bit  warm,  and  that  upsets  one's  range.  You'll 
find  he'll  be  off  now." 

Sure  enough  he  was — with  his  nose  for  home  he 
turned  tail  and  fled.  The  gunner  shouted  an  order, 
and  they  opened  fire  again,  while  the  British  'plane 
pursued,  its  Maxim  going  continuously.  Generally 
honour  is  satisfied  without  the  shedding  of  blood;  each, 
having  consistently  missed  the  other  and  resisted  the 
temptations  of  flying  low  over  his  opponents'  guns, 
returns  home  to  dinner.  But  in  this  case — well, 
whether  it  was  Archie  or  whether  it  was  the  Maxim 
is  really  immaterial.  Suddenly  a  great  sheet  of  flame 
seemed  to  leap  from  the  German  machine  and  a  puff 
of  black  smoke :  it  staggered  like  a  shot  bird  and  then, 
without  warning,  it  fell — a  streak  of  light,  like  some 
giant  shooting  star  rushing  to  the  earth.  The  Maxim 
stopped  firing,  and  after  circling  round  a  couple  of 
times  the  British  machine  buzzed  contentedly  back  to 
bed.  And  in  a  field — somewhere  behind  our  lines — 
there  lay  for  many  a  day,  deep  embedded  in  a  hole  in 
the  ground,  the  battered  remnants  of  Panting  "Lizzie, 
with  its  great  black  cross  stuck  out  of  the  earth  for 
all  to  see.  Somewhere  in  the  debris,  crushed  and  man- 
gled beyond  recognition,  could  have  been  found  the 
remnants  of  two  German  airmen.  Which  might  be 
called  the  black  and  white  of  the  overworld. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

ON  THE  STAFF 

BUT  now  rumour  was  getting  busy  in  earnest — 
things  were  in  the  air.  There  were  talks  of  a 
great  offensive — and  although  there  be  rumour  in  Eng- 
land, though  bucolic  stationmasters  have  brushed  the 
snow  from  the  steppes  of  Russia  out  of  railway  car- 
riages, I  have  no  hesitation  in  saying  that  for  quality 
and  quantity  the  rumours  that  float  round  the  army  in 
France  have  de  Rougemont  beat  to  a  frazzle.  In  this 
case  expectations  were  fulfilled,  and  two  or  three  days 
after  the  decease  of  Panting  Lizze,  Jim  and  his  bat- 
talion shook  the  dust  of  the  Ypres  district  from  their 
feet  and  moved  away  south. 

It  was  then  that  our  hero  raised  his  third  star. 
Shades  of  Wellington!  A  captain  in  a  year.  But  I 
make  no  comment.  A  sense  of  humour,  invaluable  at 
all  times,  is  indispensable  in  this  war,  if  one  wishes  to 
preserve  an  unimpaired  digestion. 

But  another  thing  happened  to  him,  too,  about  this 
time,  for,  owing  to  the  sudden  sickness  of  a  member 

of  his  General's  Staff,  he  found  himself  attached  tem- 

291 


292  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

porarily  for  duty.  No  longer  did  he  flat  foot  it,  but 
in  a  large  and  commodious  motor-car  he  viewed  life 
from  a  different  standpoint.  And,  solely  owing  to 
this  temporary  appointment,  he  was  able  to  see  the 
launching  of  the  attack  near  Loos  at  the  end  of  Sep- 
tember. He  saw  the  wall  of  gas  and  smoke  roll  slowly 
forward  towards  the  German  trenches  over  the  wide 
space  that  separated  the  trenches  in  that  part  of  the 
line.  Great  belching  explosions  seemed  to  shatter  the 
vapour  periodically,  as  German  shells  exploded  in  it, 
causing  it  to  rise  in  swirling  eddies,  as  from  some 
monstrous  cauldron,  only  to  sink  sullenly  back  and  roll 
on.  And  behind  it  came  the  assaulting  battalions,  lines 
of  black  pigmies  charging  forward. 

And  later  he  heard  of  the  Scotsmen  who  chased  the 
flying  Huns  like  terriers  after  rats,  grunting,  cursing, 
swearing,  down  the  gentle  slope  past  Loos  and  up  the 
other  side;  on  to  Hill  70,  where  they  swayed  back- 
wards and  forwards  over  the  top,  while  some  with  the 
lust  of  killing  on  them  fought  their  way  into  the  town 
beyond — and  did  not  return.  He  heard  of  the  battery 
that  blazed  over  open  sights  at  the  Germans  during 
the  morning,  till,  running  out  of  ammunition,  the  guns 
ceased  fire,  a  mark  to  every  German  rifle.  The  battery 
remained  there  during  the  day,  for  there  was  not  cover 
for  a  terrier,  let  alone  a  team  of  horses,  and  between 
the  guns  were  many  strange  tableaux  as  Death  claimed 


ON  THE  STAFF  293 

his  toll.  They  got  them  away  that  night,  but  not  be- 
fore the  gunners  had  taken  back  the  breech-blocks — in 
case ;  for  it  was  touch  and  go. 

But  this  attack  has  already  been  described  too  often, 
and  so  I  will  say  no  more.  I  would  rather  write  of 
those  things  which  happened  to  Jim  Denver  himself, 
before  he  left  the  Land  of  Topsy  Turvy  for  the  sec- 
ond time.  Only  I  venture  to  think  that  when  the  full 
story  comes  to  be  written — if  ever — of  that  last  week 
in  September,  or  the  surging  forward  past  Loos  and 
the  Lone  Tree  to  Hulluch  and  the  top  of  70,  of  the 
cavalry  who  waited  for  the  chance  that  never  came, 
and  the  German  machine-guns  hidden  in  the  slag- 
heaps,  the  reading  will  be  interesting.  What  happened 
would  fill  a  book;  what  might  have  happened — a  li- 
brary. 

It  was  a  couple  of  days  afterwards  that  he  saw  his 
first  big  batch  of  German  prisoners.  Five  or  six  miles 
behind  the  firing-line  in  a  great  grass  field,  fenced  in  on 
all  sides  by  barbed  wire,  was  a  batch  of  some  seven 
hundred — almost  all  of  them  Prussians  and  Jagers. 
Munching  food  contentedly,  they  sat  in  rows  on  the 
ground ;  their  dirty  grey  uniforms  coated  with  dust  and 
mud — unwashed,  unshaven,  and — well,  if  you  are  con- 
templating German  prisoners,  get  "up  wind."  All 
around  the  field  Tommies  stood  and  gazed,  now  and 


294  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

again  offering  them  cigarettes.    A  few  prisoners  who 
could  speak  English  got  up  and  talked. 

It  struck  Jim  Denver  then  that  he  viewed  these  men 
with  no  antipathy ;  he  merely  gazed  at  them  curiously 
as  one  gazes  at  animals  in  a  "Zoo."  And  as  we  Eng- 
lish are  ever  prone  to  such  views,  and  as  the  Hymn 
of  Hate  and  like  effusions  are  regarded,  and  rightly 
so,  as  occasions  for  mirth,  it  was  perhaps  as  well  for 
Jim  to  realise  the  other  point  of  view.  There  are  two 
sides  to  every  question,  and  the  Germans  believe  in 
their  hate  just  as  we  believe  in  our  laughter.  But 
when  it  is  over,  it  will  be  unfortunate  if  we  forget  the 
hate  too  quickly. 

"What  a  nation  we  are!"  said  a  voice  beside  Jim. 
He  turned  round  and  found  a  doctor  watching  the 
scene  with  a  peculiar  look  in  his  eyes.  "Suppose  it 
had  been  the  other  way  round!  Suppose  those  were 
our  men  while  the  Germans  were  the  captors !  Do  you 
think  the  scene  would  be  like  this?"  His  face  twisted 
into  a  bitter  smile.  "There  would  have  been  armed 
soldiers  walking  up  and  down  the  ranks,  kicking  men 
in  the  stomach,  hitting  them  on  the  head  with  rifle 
butts,  tearing  bandages  off  wounds — just  for  the  fun 
of  the  thing.  Sharing  food !" — he  laughed  contemptu- 
ously— "why,  they'd  have  been  starving.  Giving  'em 


ON  THE  STAFF  295 

cigarettes! — why,  they'd  have  taken  away  what  they 
had  already." 

He  turned  and  looked  up  the  road.  Walking  down 
it  were  thirty  or  so  German  officers.  From  the  button 
in  the  centre  of  their  jackets  hung  in  nearly  every  case 
the  ribbon  of  the  Iron  Cross.  Laughing,  talking — one 
or  two  sneering — they  came  along  and  halted  by  the 
gate  into  the  field.  They  had  been  questioned,  and 
were  waiting  to  be  marched  off  with  the  men.  A  hun- 
dred yards  or  so  away  the  cavalry  escort  was  form- 
ing up. 

"Man,"  cried  the  doctor,  suddenly  gripping  Jim's 
arm  in  a  vice,  "it's  wicked!"  In  his  eyes  there  was 
an  ugly  look.  "Look  at  those  swine — all  toddling  off 
to  Donington  Hall — happy  as  you  like.  And  think  of 
the  other  side  of  the  picture.  Stuck  with  bayonets,  hit, 
brutally  treated,  half -starved,  thrown  into  cattle  trucks. 
Good  Heaven!  it's  horrible." 

"We're  not  the  sort  to  go  in  for  retribution,"  said 
Jim,  after  a  moment.  "After  all — oh !  I  don't  know — • 
but  it's  not  quite  cricket,  is  it?  Just  because  they're 
swine  ...  ?" 

"Cricket !"  the  other  snorted.  "You  make  me  tired. 
I  tell  you  I'm  sick  to  death  of  our  kid-glove  methods. 
No  retribution !  I  suppose  if  a  buck  nigger  hit  your  pal 
over  the  head  with  a  club  you'd  give  him  a  tract  on 
charity  and  meekness.  What  would  our  ranting  peda- 


296  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

gogues  say  if  their  own  sons  had  been  crucified  by  the 
Germans  as  some  of  our  wounded  have  been?  You 
think  I'm  bitter?"  He  looked  at  Jim.  "I  am.  You 
see,  I  was  a  prisoner  myself  until  a  few  weeks  ago." 
He  turned  and  strolled  away  down  the  road.  .  .  . 

And  now  the  escort  was  ready.  An  order  shouted 
in  the  field,  and  the  men  got  up,  falling  in  in  some 
semblance  of  fours.  Slowly  they  filed  through  the 
gate  and,  with  their  own  officers  in  front,  the  cortege 
started.  Led  by  an  English  cavalry  subaltern,  with 
troopers  at  four  or  five  horses'  lengths  alongside — 
some  with  swords  drawn,  the  others  with  rifles — the 
procession  moved  sullenly  off.  A  throng  of  English 
soldiers  gazed  curiously  at  them  as  they  passed  by; 
small  urchins  ran  in  impudently  making  faces  at  them. 
And  in  the  doors  of  the  houses  dark-haired,  grim- faced 
women  watched  them  pass  with  lowering  brows.  .  .  . 

A  mixture,  those  prisoners — a  strange  mixture. 
Some  with  the  faces  of  educated  men,  some  with  the 
faces  of  beasts;  some  men  in  the  prime  of  life,  some 
mere  boys ;  slouching,  squelching  through  the  mud  with 
the  vacant  eyes  that  the  Prussian  military  system  seems 
to  give  to  its  soldiers.  The  look  of  a  man  who  has  no 
vestige  of  imagination  or  initiative;  the  look  of  a 
stoical  automaton;  callous,  boorish,  sottish  as  befits 
a  man  who  willingly  or  unwillingly  has  sold  himself 
body  and  soul  to  a  system. 


ON  THE  STAFF  297 

And  as  they  wind  through  the  mining  villages  on 
their  way  to  a  railhead,  these  same  grim- faced  French 
women  watch  them  as  they  go  by.  They  do  not  see 
the  offspring  of  a  system;  they  only  see  a  group  of 
beast-men — the  men  whose  brothers  have  killed  their 
husbands.  After  all,  has  not  Madame  got  in  her  house 
a  refugee — her  cousin — whose  screams  even  now  ring 
out  at  night  .  .  .  ? 

For  a  few  days  more  Jim  stayed  on  with  the  gen- 
eral. Their  feeding-place  was  a  little  cafe  on  the  main 
road  to  Lens.  There  each  morning  might  our  hero 
have  been  found,  in  a  filthy  little  back  room,  drinking 
coffee  out  of  a  thick  mug,  with  an  omelette  cooked  to 
perfection  on  his  plate.  Never  was  there  such  dirt 
in  any  room ;  never  a  household  so  prolific  of  children. 
Every  window  was  smashed;  the  back  garden  one 
huge  shell  hole;  but,  absolutely  unperturbed  by  such 
trifles,  that  stout,  good-hearted  Frenchwoman  pur- 
sued her  sturdy  way.  She  had  had  the  Boches  there — • 
"mais  oui" — but  what  matter?  They  did  not  stay 
long.  "Une  omelette,  monsieur;  du  cafe?  Certaine- 
ment,  monsieur.  Toute  de  suite." 

It  might  have  been  in  a  different  world  from  Ypres 
and  Poperinghe — instead  of  only  twenty  miles  to  the 
south.  Gone  were  the  flat,  cultivated  fields ;  great  slag- 
heaps  and  smoking  chimneys  were  everywhere.  And 


298  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

in  spite  of  the  fact  that  active  operations  were  in 
progress,  there  seemed  to  be  no  more  gunning  than 
the  normal  daily  contribution  at  Lizerne,  Boesinge,  and 
Jim's  old  friend  and  first  love,  Hooge.  Aeroplanes, 
too,  seemed  scarcer.  True,  one  morning,  standing  in 
the  road  outside  the  cafe,  he  saw  for  the  first  time  a 
fleet  of  'planes  starting  out  on  a  raid.  Now  one  and 
then  another  would  disappear  behind  a  fleecy  white 
cloud,  only  to  reappear  a  few  moments  later  glinting 
in  the  rays  of  the  morning  sun,  until  at  length  the 
whole  fleet,  in  dressing  and  order  like  a  flight  of  geese, 
their  wings  tipped  with  fire,  moved  over  the  blue  vault 
of  heaven.  The  drone  of  their  engines  came  faintly 
from  a.  great  height,  until,  as  if  at  some  spoken  word 
from  the  leader,  the  whole  swung  half -right  and  van- 
ished into  a  bank  of  clouds. 


CHAPTER  IX 

NO  ANSWER 

BUT  the  grey  period  for  Jim  was  drawing  to  a 
close.  To-day  it's  the  man  over  the  road  that 
tops  the  bill ;  to-morrow  it's  you,  as  I  said  before :  and 
a  change  of  caste  was  imminent  in  our  friend's  per- 
formance. One  does  not  seek  these  things — they  oc- 
cur; and  then  they're  over,  and  one  waits  for  the  next. 
There  is  no  programme  laid  down,  no  book  of  the 
words  printed.  Things  just  happen — sometimes  they 
lead  to  a  near  acquaintance  with  iodine,  and  a  kind 
woman  in  a  grey  dress  who  takes  your  temperature 
and  washes  your  face;  and  at  others  to  a  dinner  with 
much  good  wine  where  the  laughter  is  merry  and  the 
revelry  great.  Of  course  there  are  many  other  al- 
ternatives :  you  may  never  reach  the  hospital — you  may 
never  get  the  dinner;  you  may  get  a  cold  in  the  nose, 
and  go  to  the  Riviera — or  you  may  get  a  bad  corn  and 
get  blood-poisoning  from  using  a  rusty  jack  knife  to 
operate.  The  caprice  of  the  spirit  of  Topsy  Turvy  is 
quite  wonderful. 

For  instance,  on  the  very  morning  that  the  Staff 
Officer  came  back  to  his  job,  and  Jim  returned  to  his 

299 


300  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

battalion,  his  company  commander  asked  him  to  go 
to  a  general  bomb  store  in  a  house  just  up  the  road, 
and  see  that  the  men  who  were  working  there  were 
getting  on  all  right.  The  regiment  was  for  the  sup- 
port trenches  that  night,  and  preparing  bombs  was  the 
order  of  the  day. 

Just  as  he  started  to  go,  a  message  arrived  that  the 
C.O.  wished  to  see  him.  So  the  company  commander 
went  instead;  and  entered  the  building  just  as  a  Ger- 
man shell  came  in  by  another  door.  By  all  known  laws 
a  man  going  over  Niagara  in  an  open  tub  would  not 
willingly  have  changed  places  with  him ;  an  8-inch  shell 
exploding  in  the  same  room  with  you  is  apt  to  be  a 
decisive  moment  in  your  career. 

But  long  after  the  noise  and  the  building  had  sub- 
sided, and  from  high  up  in  the  air  had  come  a  fusillade 
of  small  explosions  and  little  puffs  of  smoke,  where 
the  bombs  hurled  up  from  the  cellar  went  off  in  turn — 
Jim  perceived  his  captain  coming  down  the  road.  He 
had  been  hurled  through  the  wall  as  it  came  down, 
across  the  road,  and  had  landed  intact  on  a  manure 
heap.  And  it  was  only  when  he  hit  the  colonel  a  stun- 
ning blow  over  the  head  with  a  French  loaf  at  lunch 
time  that  they  found  out  he  was  temporarily  as  mad  as 
a  hatter.  So  they  got  him  away  in  an  ambulance  and 
Jim  took  over  the  company.  As  I  say — things  just 
happen. 


NO  ANSWER  301 

That  night  they  moved  up  into  support  trenches — up 
that  dirty,  muddy  road  with  the  cryptic  notices  posted 
at  various  places :  "Do  not  loiter  here,"  "This  cross- 
road is  dangerous,"  "Shelled  frequently,"  etc.  And  at 
length  they  came  to  the  rise  which  overlooks  "Loos  and 
found  they  were  to  live  in  the  original  German  front 
line — now  our  support  trench.  They  were  for  the 
front  line  in  the  near  future — but  at  present  their  job 
was  work  on  this  support  trench  and  clearing  up  the 
battlefield  near  them. 

Now  this  war  is  an  impersonal  sort  of  thing  taking 
it  all  the  way  round.  Those  who  stand  in  front 
trenches  and  blaze  away  at  advancing  Huns  are  not,  I 
think,  actuated  by  personal  fury  against  the  men  they 
kill.  You  may  pick  out  a  fat  one  perhaps  with  a  red 
beard  and  feel  a  little  satisfaction  when  you  kill  him 
because  his  face  offends  you,  but  you  don't  really  feel 
any  individual  animosity  towards  him.  One  gets  so 
used  to  death  on  a  large  scale  that  it  almost  ceases  to 
affect  one.  An  isolated  man  lying  dead  and  twisted 
by  the  road,  where  one  doesn't  expect  to  find  him, 
moves  one  infinitely  more  than  a  wholesale  slaughter. 
The  thing  is  too  vast,  too  overpowering  for  a  man's 
brain  to  realise. 

But  of  all  the  things  which  one  may  be  called  on  to 
do,  the  clearing  of  a  battlefield  after  an  advance  brings 


302  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

home  most  poignantly  the  tragedy  of  war.  You  see 
the  individual  then,  not  the  mass.  Every  silent  figure 
lying  sprawled  in  fantastic  attitude,  every  huddled 
group,  every  distorted  face  tells  a  story. 

Here  is  an  R.A.M.C.  orderly  crouching  over  a  man 
lying  on  a  stretcher.  The  man  had  been  wounded — a 
splint  is  on  his  leg,  while  the  dressing  is  still  in  the 
orderly's  hand.  Then  just  as  the  orderly  was  at  work, 
the  end  came  for  both  in  a  shrapnel  shell,  and  the 
tableau  remains,  horribly,  terribly  like  a  tableau  at 
some  amateur  theatricals. 

Here  are  a  group  of  men  caught  by  the  fire  of  the 
machine-gun  in  the  corner,  to  which  even  now  a  dead 
Hun  is  chained — riddled,  unrecognisable. 

Here  is  an  officer  lying  on  his  back,  his  knees  doubled 
up,  a  revolver  gripped  in  one  hand,  a  weighted  stick  in 
the  other.  xHis  face  is  black,  so  death  was  instan- 
taneous. Out  of  the  officer's  pocket  a  letter  protrudes 
— a  letter  to  his  wife.  Perhaps  he  anticipated  death 
before  he  started,  for  it  was  written  the  night  before 
the  advance — who  knows  ? 

And  it  is  when,  in  the  soft  half-light  of  the  moon, 
one  walks  among  these  silent  remnants,  and  no  sound 
breaks  the  stillness  save  the  noise  of  the  shovels  where 
men  are  digging  their  graves ;  when  the  guns  are  silent 
and  only  an  occasional  burst  of  rifle  fire  comes  from 
away  in  front,  where  the  great  green  flares  go  silently 


NO  ANSWER  303 

up  into  the  night,  that  for  a  moment  the  human  side 
comes  home  to  one.  One  realises  that  though  monster 
guns  and  minenwerf er  and  strange  scientific  devices  be 
the  paper  money  of  this  war,  now  as  ever  the  standard 
coinage — the  bedrock  gold  of  barter — is  still  man's 
life.  The  guns  count  much — but  the  man  counts  more. 

Take  out  his  letter  carefully — it  will  be  posted  later. 
Scratch  him  a  grave,  there's  work  to  be  done — much 
work,  so  hurry.  His  name  has  been  sent  in  to  head- 
quarters— there's  no  time  to  waste.  Easy,  lads,  easy — • 
that's  right — cover  him  up.  A  party  of  you  over 
there  and  get  on  with  that  horse — there's  no  time  to 
waste.  .  .  . 

But  somewhere  in  England  a  telegraph  boy  comes 
whistling  up  the  drive,  and  the  woman  catches  her 
breath.  With  fingers  that  tremble  she  takes  the  buff 
envelope — with  fearful  eyes  she  opens  the  flimsy  paper. 
Superbly  she  draws  herself  up — "There  is  no  an- 


swer." 


Lady,  you  are  right.  There  is  no  answer,  no  answer 
this  side  of  the  Great  Divide.  Just  now — with  your 
aching  eyes  fixed  on  his  chair  you  face  your  God,  and 
ask  Why?  He  knows,  dear  woman,  He  knows,  and 
in  time  it  will  all  be  clear — the  why  and  the  where- 
fore. Surely  it  must  be  so. 

But  just  now  it's  Hell,  isn't  it?  You  know  so  little : 
you  couldn't  help  him  at  the  end;  he  had  to  go  into 


304  MEN,  WOMEN  AND!  GUNS 

the  Deep  Waters  alone.  With  the  shrapnel  screaming 
overhead  he  lies  at  peace,  while  above  him  it  still  goes 
on — the  work  of  life  and  death :  the  work  that  brooks 
no  delay.  He  is  part  of  the  Price.  .  ,  . 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  BADNESS 

ALL  the  next  day  the  battalion  worked  on  the 
trenches.  To  men  used  to  the  water  and  slush 
of  Ypres  they  came  as  a  revelation — the  trenches  and 
dug-outs  in  the  chalk  district.  Great  caves  had  been 
hollowed  out  of  the  ground  under  the  barbed  wire  in 
front,  with  two  narrow  shafts  sloping  steeply  down 
from  the  trench  to  each,  so  small  and  narrow  that  you 
must  crawl  on  hands  and  knees  to  get  in  or  out.  And 
up  these  shafts  they  hauled  and  pushed  the  dead  Ger- 
mans. Caught  like  rats,  they  had  been  gassed  and 
bombed  before  they  could  get  out,  though  some  few 
had  managed  to  crawl  up  after  the  assaulting  bat- 
talions had  passed  over  and  to  open  fire  on  the  sup- 
porting ones  as  they  came  up.  Jim  and  his  men  threw 
them  out  to  be  buried  at  night,  and  they  confined  their 
attention  during  the  day  to  building  up  the  trenches 
'and  shifting  the  parapet .  round.  German  sandbags 
look  like  an  assortment  out  of  a  cheap  village  draper's 
— pink  and  black  and  every  kind  of  colour,  but  they 
hold  earth,  which  is  the  main  point.  So  with  due  care 

305 


306  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

the  battalion  patted  them  into  shape  again  and  then 
took  a  little  sleep. 

That  night  they  moved  on  again.  Now  the  first 
trench  which  they  had  occupied  had  been  behind  Loos, 
and  there  our  new  line  was  a  mile  away  to  their  front 
on  the  side  of  a  hill.  The  place  they  were  now  bound 
for  was  nothing  like  so  peaceful.  It  was  that  part  of 
the  original  German  front  where  their  old  line  marked 
the  limit  of  our  advance.  We  had  not  pushed  on  be- 
yond it,  and  the  fighting  was  continuous  and  bloody. 

Now  without  going  into  details,  perhaps  a  few 
words  of  explanation  might  not  be  amiss.  To  many 
who  may  read  them,  they  will  seem  as  extracts  from 
the  "Child's  Guide  to  Knowledge/'  or  reminiscent  of 
those  great  truths  one  learned  at  one's  nurse's  knee. 
But  to  some,  who  know  nothing  about  it,  they  may 
be  of  use. 

When  one  occupies  the  German  front  line  and  the 
Hun  has  been  driven  into  his  second,  the  communica- 
tion trenches  which  ran  between  are  still  there.  The 
trenches  which  used  to  run  to  their  rear  now  run  to 
your  front  and  are  a  link  between  you  and  the  enemy. 
And  as  somewhat  naturally  their  knowledge  of  the 
position  is  accurate  and  yours  is  sketchy,  the  situation 
is  not  all  it  might  be.  Moreover,  as  no  communication 
trenches  exist  between  the  two  old  front  lines — over 
what  was  No-man's-land — any  reserves  must  come 


THE  MADNESS 

across  the  open,  and  should  it  be  necessary  to  retire, 
a  contingency  which  must  always  be  faced,  the  retreat 
must  be  across  the  open  as  well. 

But  when  you're  in  a  German  redoubt,  where  the 
trenches  would  have  put  a  maze  to  shame,  the  work  of 
consolidating  the  position  is  urgent  and  difficult.  Com- 
munication trenches  to  your  front  have  to  be  recon- 
noitred and  partially  rilled  in;  wire  put  up;  Maxims 
arranged  to  shoot  down  straight  lengths  of  trench ;  new 
trenches  dug  to  the  rear.  Which  is  all  right  if  the 
enemy  is  half  a  mile  away,  but  when  the  distance  is 
twenty  yards,  when  without  cessation  he  bombs  you 
from  unexpected  quarters,  your  temper  gets  frayed. 

This  type  of  fighting  ceases  to  be  impersonal.  No 
longer  do  you  throw  bombs  mechanically  from  one 
trench  to  another.  No  longer  do  you  have  no  actual 
animosity  against  the  men  over  the  way.  You  under- 
stand the  feelings  of  the  guard  when  their  German 
prisoners  laughed  on  seeing  men  gassed — earlier  in 
the  war.  And  you  realise  that  when  a  man's  blood  is 
up,  you  might  just  as  well  preach  on  the  wickedness 
of  retribution  as  request  a  man-eating  tiger  to  post- 
pone his  dinner.  The  joy  of  killing  a  man  you  hate  is 
wonderful;  the  unfortunate  thing  is  that  in  these  days, 
when  far  from  leading  to  the  hangman,  it  frequently 


308  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

leads  to  much  kudos  and  a  medal,  so  few  of  us  have 
ever  really  had  the  opportunity.  .  .  . 

In  the  place  where  Jim  found  himself  it  was  at  such 
close  quarters  that  bombs  were  the  only  possible 
weapon.  For  two  days  and  two  nights  it  went  on. 
Little  parties  of  Germans  surged  up  unexpected  open- 
ings, sometimes  establishing  themselves,  sometimes 
fighting  hand-to-hand  in  wet,  sticky  chalk.  Then,  un- 
less they  were  driven  out — bombers  to  the  fore  again : 
a  series  of  sharp  explosions,  a  dash  round  a  traverse, 
a  grunting,  snarling  set-to  in  the  dark,  and  all  would 
be  over  one  way  or  the  other. 

Then  one  morning  Jim's  company  got  driven  out 
of  a  forward  piece  of  the  trench  they  were  holding. 
Worn  out  and  tired,  their  faces  grey  with  exhaustion, 
their  clothes  grey  with  chalk,  heavy-eyed,  unshaven, 
driven  out  by  sheer  weight  of  numbers  and  bombs, 
they  fell  back — those  that  remained — down  a  com- 
munication trench.  But  they  were  different  men  from 
the  men  who  went  into  the  place  three  days  before; 
the  primitive  passions  of  man  were  rampant — they 
asked  no  mercy,  they  gave  none.  Back,  after  a  short 
breather,  they  went,  and  when  they  won  through  by 
sheer  bloody  fighting,  they  found  a  thing  which  sent 
them  tearing  mad  with  rage.  The  wounded  they  had 
left  behind  had  been  bombed  to  death.  The  junior 


THE  MADNESS  309 

subaltern  was  pulled  out  of  a  corner  by  a  traverse — • 
mangled  horribly — and  he  told  Jim. 

"They  packed  us  in  here  and  between  the  next  two 
or  three  traverses  and  lobbed  bombs  over,"  he  whis- 
pered. And  Jim  swore  horribly.  "They're  coming 
back,"  muttered  the  dying  boy.  "Listen." 

The  next  instant  the  Germans  were  at  it  again,  and 
the  fighting  became  like  the  fighting  of  wild  beasts. 
Men  stabbed  and  hacked  and  cursed;  rifle  butts 
cracked  down  on  heads ;  triggers  were  pulled  with  the 
muzzle  an  inch  from  a  man's  face.  And  because  the 
German  face  to  face  is  no  match  for  the  English  or 
French,  in  a  short  time  there  was  peace,  while  men, 
panting  like  exhausted  runners,  bound  up  one  another's 
scratches,  and  passed  back  the  serious  cases  to  the 
rear.  They  knew  it  was  only  a  temporary  respite,  and 
while  Jim  eased  the  dying  boy,  they  stacked  bombs  in 
heaps  where  they  could  get  at  them  quickly.  It  was 
then  that  the  German  officer  crawled  out.  Down  some 
hole  or  other  in  a  bomb  recess  he  had  hidden  during 
the  fight — and  then,  thinking  his  position  dangerous, 
decided  for  peaceful  capture.  It  was  unfortunate  for 
him  the  junior  subaltern  was  still  alive — but  only  Jim 
heard  the  whisper: 

"That's  the  man  who  told  them  to  bomb  us." 

"That's  interesting,"  said  Jim,  and  his  face  was 
white,  while  his  eyes  were  red. 


3io  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

Quietly  he  picked  up  a  pick,  and  moved  towards  the 
German  officer.  Through  the  Huns  who  had  come 
back  again,  fighting,  stabbing,  picking  his  way,  Jim 
Denver  moved  relentlessly.  And  at  last  he  reached 
him — reached  him  and  laughed  gently.  The  German 
sprang  at  him  and  Jim  struck  him  with  his  fist;  the 
German  screamed  for  help,  but  there  was  none  to  help ; 
every  man  was  fighting  grimly  for  his  own  life.  Then 
still  without  a  word  he  drove  the  pick.  .  .  .  Once  again 
he  laughed  gently,  and  turned  his  mind  to  other  things. 

For  hours  they  hung  on,  bombing,  shooting,  at  a 
yard's  range,  and  in  the  forefront,  cheering  them,  hold- 
ing them,  doing  the  work  of  ten,  was  Jim.  His  re- 
volver ammunition  was  exhausted,  his  loaded  stick  was 
broken;  his  eyes  had  a  look  of  madness:  temporarily 
he  was  mad — mad  with  the  lust  of  killing.  It  was 
almost  the  last  bomb  the  Germans  threw  that  took 
him,  and  that  took  him  properly.  But  the  remnant  of 
his  company  who  carried  him  back,  when  relief  came 
up  from  the  battalion,  contained  no  one  more  cheery 
than  him.  As  a  fight  they'll  never  have  a  better;  and 
it's  better  to  take  it  when  the  fighting  is  bloody,  and 
it's  man  to  man,  than  to  stop  a  shrapnel  at  the  es- 
taminet  two  miles  down  the  road.  That  isn't  even 
grey — it's  mottled:  especially  if  the  red  wine  is  just 
coming.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE   GREY    HOUSE  AGAIN 

SO  they  carried  him  home  for  the  second  time — back 
to  the  Land  of  Sanity:  to  the  place  where  the 
noise  of  the  water  sounded  ceaselessly  over  the  rounded 
stones.  And  resting  one  afternoon  on  a  sofa  in  the 
drawing-room  Jim  dozed. 

The  door  burst  open,  and  Sybil  came  in.  "Boy,  do 
you  see,  they've  given  you  a  D.S.O.  Tor  conspicuous 
gallantry  in  holding  up  an  almost  isolated  position  for 
several  hours  against  vastly  superior  numbers  of  the 
enemy.  He  was  badly  wounded  just  before  relief 
came/  " 

Her  eyes  were  shining.  "Oh!  my  dear — I'm  so 
proud  of  you!  Do  you  remember  saying  it  was  a 
glorious  madness?" 

Into  his  mind  there  flashed  the  picture  of  a  German 
officer's  face — distorted  with  terror — cringing:  just  as 
a  pick  came  down.  .  .  . 

"Yes,  girl,  I  remember,"  he  answered  softly.  "I 
remember.  But,  thank  God,  I'm  sane  again  now." 


312  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS 

And  now  I  will  ring  down  the  curtain.  For  Jim 
Denver  the  black  and  white  have  gone ;  even  the  grey 
of  the  Land  of  Topsy  Turvy  is  hazy  and  indistinct. 
The  guns  are  silent:  the  men  and  the  women  are — 
sane. 

The  shepherd  is  out  of  sight  amongst  the  trees;  the 
purple  is  changing  to  grey,  the  grey  to  black ;  there  is 
no  sound  saving  only  the  tireless  murmur  of  the 
river.  , 


THE  END 


FOUR  TIMELY  BOOKS  OF 
INTERNATIONAL  IMPORTANCE 

I  ACCUSE   (/'ACCUSED  By  a  German.     A   Scathing 
Arraignment  of  the  German  War  Policy. 

At  this  vital  time  in  the  nation's  history  every  patriotic  American 
should  read  and  reread  this  wonderful  book  and  learn  the  absurdity 
of  the  German  excuse  that  they  wanted  a  "Place  in  the  oun." 

Learn  how  the  German  masses  were  deluded  with  the  idea  that 
they  were  making  a  defensive  war  to  protect  the  Fatherland. 

Let  the  author  of  this  illuminating  book  again  show  the  sacrilege 
of  claiming  a  Christian  God  as  a  Teutonic  ally  and  riddle  once  more 
the  divine  right  of  kings. 

PAN-GERMANISiM.     By  Roland  G.  Usher. 

The  clear,  graphic  style  gives  it  a  popular  appeal  that  sets  it  miles 
apart  from  the  ordinary  treatise,  and  for  the  reader  who  wishes  to 
get  a  rapid  focus  on  the  world  events  of  the  present,  perhaps  no 
book  written  will  be  more  interesting. 

It  is  the  only  existing  forecast  of  exactly  the  present  development 
of  events  in  Europe.  It  is,  besides,  a  brisk,  clear,  almost  primer- 
like  reduction  of  the  complex  history  of  Europe  during  the  last  forty 
years  to  a  simple,  connected  story  clear  enough  to  the  most  casual 
reader. 

THE  CHALLENGE  OF  THE  FUTURE.  By  Roland 
G.  Usher. 

A  glance  into  America's  future  by  the  man  who,  in  his  bookTAN- 
GERMANISM,  foretold  with  such  amazing  accuracy  the  coming  of 
the  present  European  events.  An  exceedingly  live  and  timely  book 
that  is  bound  to  be  read  and  discussed  widely  because  it  strikes  to 
the  heart  of  American  problems,  and  more  especially  because  it  hits 
right  and  left  at  ideas  that  have  become  deep-seated  convictions  in 
many  American  minds. 

THE  EVIDENCE  IN  THE  CASE.      By  James  M 
Beck,  LL.D.,  Formerly  Assistant  Attorney-Genera/ 
of  the  United  States,  Author  of  the  "War  and  Hu- 
manity."   With  an  Introduction  by  the  Hon.  Joseph 
H.  Choate-jLate  U.  S.  Ambassador  to  Great  Britain.' 

No  work  on  the  War  has  made  a  deeper  impression  throughout 
the  world  than  "The  Evidence  in  the  Case,"  a  calm,  dispassionate, 
but  forceful  discussion  of  the  moral  responsibility  for  the  present 
war  as  disclosed  by  the  diplomatic  papers.  Arnold  Bennett  says  that 
it  "is  certainly  by  far  the  most  convincing  indictment  of  Germany  in, 
existence." 


GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  PUBLISHERS,  NEW  YORK 


THE  NOVELS  OF 

WINSTON  CHURCHILL 

THE  INSIDE  OF  THE  CUP.    Illustrated  by  Howard  Giles. 

The  Reverend  John  Hodder  is  called  to  a  fashionable  church  in 
a  middle-western  city.  He  knows  little  of  modern  problems  and  in 
his  theology  is  as  orthodox  as  the  rich  men  who  control  his  church 
could  desire.  But  the  facts  of  modern  life  are  thrust  upon  him;  an 
awakening  follows  and  in  the  end  he  works  out  a  solution. 
A  FAR  COUNTRY.  Illustrated  by  Herman  Pfeifer. 

This  novel  is  concerned  with  big  problems  of  the  day.    As  The 
Inside  of  the  Cup  gets  down  to  the  essentials  in  its  discussion  of  re- 
ligion, so  A  Far  Country  deals  in  a  story  that  is  intense  and  dra- 
matic, with  other  vital  issues  confronting  the  twentieth  century. 
A  MODERN  CHRONICLE.    Illustrated  by  J.  H.  Gardner  Soper. 

This,  Mr.   Churchill's  first  great  presentation  of  the  Eternal 
Feminine,  is  throughout  a  profound  study  of  a  fascinating  young 
American  woman.    It  is  frankly  a  modern  love  story. 
MR.  CREWE'S  CAREER.     Illus.  by  A.  I.  Keller  and  Kinneys. 

A  new  England  state  is  under  the  political  domination  of  a  rail- 
way and  Mr.  Crewe,  a  millionaire,  seizes  a  moment  when  the  cause 
of  the  people  is  being  espoused  by  an  ardent  young  attorney,  to  fur- 
ther his  own  interest  in  a  political  way.  The  daughter  of  the  rail- 
way president  plays  no  small  part  in  the  situation. 
THE  CROSSING.  Illustrated  by  S.  Adamson  and  L.  Baylis. 

Describing  the  battle  of  Fort  Moultrie,  the  blazing  of  the  Ken- 
tucky wilderness,  the  expedition  of  Clark  and  his  handful  of  follow- 
ers in  Illinois,  the  beginning  of   civilization  along  the  Ohio  and 
Mississippi,  and  the  treasonable  schemes  against  Washington. 
CONISTON.    Illustrated  by  Florence  Scovel  Shinn. 

A  deft  blending  of  love  and  politics.    A  New  Englander  is  the 
hero,  a  crude  man  who  rose  to  political  prominence  by  his  own  pow- 
ers, and  then  surrendered  all  for  the  love  of  a  woman. 
*  THE  CELEBRITY.    An  episode. 

An  inimitable  bit  of  comedy  describing  an  interchange  of  per- 
sonalities between  a  celebrated  author  and  a  bicycle  salesman.    It 
is  the  purest,  keenest  fun — and  is  American  to  the  core. 
THE  CRISIS.    Illustrated  with  scenes  from  the  Photo-Play. 

A  book  that  presents  the  great  crisis  in  our  national  life  with 
splendid  power  and  with  a  sympathy,  a  sincerity,  and  a  patriotism 
that  are  inspiring. 
RICHARD  CARVEL.    Illustrated  by  Malcolm  Frazer. 

An  historical  novel  which  gives  a  real  and  vivid  picture  of  Co- 
lonial times,  and  is  good,  clean,  spirited  reading  in  all  its  phases  and 
interesting  throughout. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,      PUBLISHERS,     NEW  YORK 


JACK    LONDON'S    NOVELS 

May  be  had  wherever  books  are  sold.     Ask  for  Grosset  &  Dunlap's  list 

JOHN  BARLEYCORN.    Illustrated  by  H.  T.  Dunn. 

This  remarkable  book  is  a  record  of  the  author's  own  amazing 
experiences-  This  big,  brawny  world  rover,  who  has  been  ac- 
quainted with  alcohol  from  boyhood,  comes  out  boldly  against  John 
Barleycorn.  It  is  a  string  of  exciting  adventures,  yet  it  forcefully 
°<onveys  an  unf  orgetable  idea  and  makes  a  typical  Jack  London  book. 
THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON.  Frontispiece  by  George  Harper. 

The  story  opens  in  the  city  slums  where  Billy  Roberts,  teamster 
and  ex -prize  fighter,  and  Saxon  Brown,  laundry  worker,  meet  and 
love  and  marry.  They  tramp  from  one  end  of  California  to  the 
other,  and  in  the  Valley  of  the  Moon  find  the  farm  paradise  that  is 
to  be  their  salvation. 

BURNING  DAYLIGHT.    Four  illustrations. 

The  story  of  an  adventurer  who  went  to  Alaska  and  laid  the 
foundations  of  his  fortune  before  the  gold  hunters  arrived.  Bringing 
his  fortunes  to  the  States  he  is  cheated  out  of  it  by  a  crowd  of  money 
kings,  and  recovers  it  only  at  the  muzzle  of  his  gun.  He  then  starts 
out  as^a  merciless  exploiter  on  his  own  account.  Finally  he  takes  to 
drinking  and  becomes  a  picture  of  degeneration.  About  this  time 
he  falls  in  love  with  his  stenographer  and  wins  her  heart  but  not 
her  hand  and  then— but  read  the  story! 

A  SON  OF  THE  SUN.  Illustrated  by  A.  O.  Fischer  and  C.W.  Ashley. 

David  Grief  was  once  a  light-haired,  blue-eyed  youth  who  came 
from  England  to  the  South  Seas  in  search  of  adventure.  Tanned 
like  a  native  and  as  lithe  as  a  tiger,  he  became  a  real  son  of  the  sun. 
The  life  appealed  to  him  and  he  remained  and  became  very  wealthy. 
THE  CALL  OF  THE  WILD.  Illustrations  by  Philip  R.  Goodwin  and 
Charles  Livingston  Bull.  Decorations  by  Charles  E.  Hooper. 

A  book  ot  dog  adventures  as  exciting  as  any  man's  exploits 
could  be.  Here  is  excitement  to  stir  the  blood  and  here  is  pictur- 
esque color  to  transport  the  reader  to  primitive  scenes., 

THE  SEA  WOLF.    Illustrated  by  W.  J.  Aylward. 

Told  by  a  man  whom  Fate  suddenly  swings  from  his  fastidious 
life  into  the  power  of  the  brutal  captain  of  a  sealing  schooner.  A 
novel  of  adventure  warmed  by  a  beautiful  love  episode  that  every 
reader  will  hail  with  delight. 

WHITE  FANG.    Illustrated  by  Charles  Livingston  Bull. 

"White  Fang"  is  part  dog,  part  wolf  and  all  brute,  living  in  the 
frozen  north ;  he  gradually  comes  under  the  spell  of  man's  com- 
panionship,  and  surrenders  all  at  the  last  in  a  fight  with  a  bull  dog. 
Thereafter  he  is  man's  loving  slave. 

GROSSET   &   DUNLAP,  PUBLISHERS',    NEW   YORK 


NOVELS  OF  FRONTIER  LIFE  BY 

WILLIAM  MacLEOD   RAINE 

HANDSOMELY  BOUND  IN  CLOTH.     ILLUSTRATED. 
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MAVERICKS.  . 

A  tale  of  the  western  frontier,  where  the  "rustler,"  whose  dep- 
redations are  so  keenly  resented  by  the  early  settlers  of  the  range, 
abounds.  One  of  the  sweetest  love  stories  ever  told,  j 

A  TEXAS  RANGER. 

How  a  member  of  the  most  dauntless  border  police  force  carried 
law  into  the  mesquit,  saved  the  life  of  an  innocent  man  after  a  series 
of  thrilling  adventures,  followed  a  fugitive  to  Wyoming,  and  then 
passed  through  deadly  peril  to  ultimate  happiness. 

WYOMING. 

In  this  vivid  story  of  the  outdoor  West  the  author  has  captured 
the  breezy  charm  of  "cattleland,"  and  brings  out  the  turbid  life  of 
the  frontier  with  all  its  engaging  dash  and  vigor. 

RID G WAY  OF  MONTANA. 

The  scene  is  laid  in  the  mining  centers  of  Montana,  where  poli- 
tics and  mining  industries  are  the  religion  of  the  country.  The 
political  contest,  the  love  scene,  and  the  fine  character  drawing  give 
this  story  great  strength  and  charm. 

BUCKY  O'CONNOR. 

Every  chapter  teems  with  wholesome,  stirring  adventures,  re- 
plete  with  the  dashing  spirit  of  the  border,  told  with  dramatic  dasi 
and  absorbing  fascination  of  style  and  plot. 

CROOKED  TRAILS  AND  STRAIGHT. 

A  story  of  Arizona;  of  swift-riding  men  and  daring  outlaws;  of 
a  bitter  feud  between  cattle-men  and  sheep-herders.  The  heroine 
's  a  most  unusual  woman  and  her  love  story  reaches  a  culmination 
that  is  fittingly  characteristic  of  the  great  free  West. 

BRAND  BLOTTERS. 

A  ntory  of  the  Cattle  Range.  This  story  brings  out  the  turbid 
life  of  the  frontier,  with  all  its  engaging  dash  and  vigor,  with  a  charm- 
ing love  interest  running  through  its  320  pages. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,     PUBLISHERS,      NEW  YORK 


ZANE  GREY'S  NOVELS 

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THE  LIGHT  OF  WESTERN  STARS 

Colored  frontispiece  by  W.  Herbert  Dunton. 

Most  of  the  action  of  this  story  takes  place  near  the  turbulent 
Mexican  border  of  the  present  day.  A  New  York  society  girl  buys 
a  ranch  which  becomes  the  center  of  frontier  warfare.  Her  loyal 
cowboys  defend  her  property  from  bandits,  and  her  superintendent 
rescues  her  when  she  is  captured  by  them.  A  surprising  climax 
brings  the  story  to  a  delightful  close. 

DESERT  GOLD 

Illustrated  by  Douglas  Duer. 

Another  fascinating  story  of  the  Mexican  border.  Two  men. 
lost  in  the  desert,  discover  gold  when,  overcome  by  weakness,  they 
can  go  no  farther.  The  rest  of  the  story  describes  the  recent  uprising 
along  the  border,  and  ends  with  the  finding  of  the  gold  which  the 
two  prospectors  had  willed  to  the  girl  who  is  the  story's  heroine. 

RIDERS  OF  THE  PURPLE  SAGE 

Illustrated  by  Douglas  Duer. 

A  picturesque  romance  of  Utah  of  some  forty  years  ago  when 
Mormon  authority  ruled.  In  the  persecution  of  Jane  Withersteen,  a 
rich  ranch  owner,  we  are  permitted  to  see  the  methods  employed  by 
the  invisible  hand  of  the  Mormon  Church  to  break  her  will. 

THE  LAST  OF  THE  PLAINSMEN 
Illustrated  with  photograph  reproductions. 

This  is  the  record  of  a  trip  which  the  author  took  with  Buffalo 
Jones,  known  as  the  preserver  of  the  American  bison,  across  the 
Arizona  desert  and  of  a  hunt  in  "that  wonderful  country  of  yellow 
crags,  deep  canons  and  giant  pines."  It  is  a  fascinating  story. 

THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  DESERT 

Jacket  in  color.     Frontispiece. 

This  big  human  drama  is  played  in  the  Painted  Desert.    A 
lovely  girl,  who  has  been  reared  among  Mormons,  learns  to  love  & 
young  New  Englander.    The  Mormon  religion,  however,  demands 
that  the  girl  shall  become  the  second  wife  of  one  of  the  Mormons- 
Well,  that's  the  problem  of  this  sensational,  big  selling  story. 

BETTY  ZANE 

Illustrated  by  Louis  F.  Grant. 

This  story  tells  of  the  bravery  and  heroism  of  Betty,  the  beauti- 
ful young  sister  of  old  Colonel  Zane,  one  of  the  bravest  pioneers. 
Life  along  the  frontier,  attacks  by  Indians,  Betty's  heroic  defense 
of  the  beleaguered  garrison  at  Wheeling,  the  burning  of  the  Fort, 
and  Betty's  final  race  for  lif  e,make  up  this  never-to-be-forgotten  story. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,    PUBLISHERS,   NEW  YORK 


THE  HARVESTER. 


STORIES  OF  RARE  CHARM  BY 

GENE  STRATTON-PORTER 

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LADDIE.~ 

Illustrated  by  Herman  Pfeifer. 

This  is  a  bright,  cheery  tale  with  thl 
scenes  laid  m  Indiana.  The  story  is  told 
by  Little  Sister,  the  youngest  member  oi* 
a  large  family,  but  it  is  concerned  not  so 
much  with  childish  doings  as  with  the  love 
affairs  of  older  members  of  the  family. 
Chief  among  them  is  that  of  Laddie,  the 
older  brother  whom  Little  Sister  adores, 
and  the  Princess,  an  English  girl  who  has 
come  to  live  in  the  neighborhood  and  about 
whose  family  there  hangs  a  mystery 6 
There  is  a  wedding  midway  in  the  book 
and  a  double  wedding  at  the  close. 
Illustrated  by  W.  L.  Jacobs. 

"The  Harvester,"  David  Langston,  is  «,  man  of  the  woods  and 
fields,  who  draws  his  living  from  the  prodigal  hand  of  Mother 
Nature  herself.  If  the  book  had  nothing  in  it  but  the  splendid  figure 
of  this  man  it  would  be  notable.  But  when  the  Girl  comes  to  his 
"Medicine  Woods,"  and  the  Harvester's  whole  being  realizes  that 
this  is  the  highest  point  of  life  which  has  come  to  him— there  begins 
a  romance  of  the  rarest  idyllic  quality. 
FRECKLES,  Decorations  by  E.  Stetson  Crawford. 

Freckles  is  a  nameless  waif  when  the  tale  opens,  but  the  way  la 
Which  he  takes  hold  of  life;  the  nature  friendships  he  forms  in  the 
great  Limberlost  Swamp;  the  manner  in  which  everyone  who  meets 
him  succumbs  to  the  charm  of  his  engaging  personality;  and  his 
love-story  with  "The  Angel"  are  full  of  real  sentimentr 
A  GIRL  OF  THE  LIMBERLOST. 
Illustrated  by  Wladyslaw  T.  Brenda. 

The  story  of  a  girl  of  the  Michigan  woods;  a  buoyant,  lovable 
type  of  the  self-reliant  American.  Her  philosophy  is  one  of  love  and 
kindness  towards  all  things;  her  hope  is  never  dimmed.  And  by  the 
Sheer  beauty  of  her  soul,  and  the  purity  of  her  vision,  she  wins  frcn? 
barren  and  unpromising  surroundings  those  rewards  of  high  courage, 
AT  THE  FOOT  OF  THE  RAINBOW. 
Illustrations  in  colors  by  Oliver  Kemp. 

The  scene  of  this  charming  love  story  is  laid  in  Central  Indiana. 
The  story  is  one  of  devoted  friendship,  and  tender  self-sacrificing 
love.  The  novel  is  brimful  of  the  most  beautiful  word  painting  of 
nature,  and  its  pathos  and  tender  sentiment  will  endear  it  to  all. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,     PUBLISHERS,      NEW  YORK 


JOHN  FOX,  JR'S. 

STORIES   OF  THE   KENTUCKY  MOUNTAINS 

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THE  TRAIL   OF  THE    LONESOME   PINE./ 
Illustrated  by  F.  C.  Yohn. 


The  "lonesome  pine"  from  which  the 
story  takes  its  name  was  a  tall  tree  that 
stood  in  solitary  splendor  on  a  mountain 
top.  The  fame  of  the  pine  lured  a  young 
engineer  through  Kentucky  to  catch  the 
trail,  and  when  he  finally  climbed  to  its 
shelter  he  found  not  only  the  pine  but  the 
foot-prints  of  a  girL  And  the  girl  proved 
to  be  lovely,  piquant,  and  the  trail  of 
these  girlish  foot-prints  led  the  young 
engineer  a  madder  chase  than  "the  trail 
of  the  lonesome  pine." 

SHEPHERD    OF    KINGDOM    COME 


THE    LITTLE 


Illustrated  by  F.  C.  Yohn. 

This  is  a  story  cf  Kentucky,  in  a  settlement  known  as  "King- 
dom Come."  It  is  a  life  rude,  semi-barbarous;  but  natural 
and  honest,  from  which  often  springs  the  flower  of  civilization. 

"  Chad."  the  "little  shepherd"  did  not  know  who  he  was  nor 
whence  he  came — he  had  just  wandered  from  door  to  door  since 
early  childhood,  seeking  shelter  with  kindly  mountaineers  who 
gladly  fathered  and  mothered  this  waif  about  whom  there  was 
such  a  mystery — a  charming  waif,  by  the  way,  who  could  play 
the  banjo  better  that  anyone  else  in  the  mountains. 

A  KNIGHT   OF  THE    CUMBERLAND.. 
Illustrated   by  F.  C.  Yohn. 

The  scenes  are  laid  along  the  waters  of  the  Cumberland* 
the  lair  of  moonshiner  and  feudsman.  The  knight  is  a  moon- 
shiner's son,  and  the  heroine  a  beautiful  girl  perversely  chris- 
tened "The  Blight."  Two  impetuous  young  Southerners'  fall 
under  the  spell  of  "The  Blight's  "  charms  and  she  learns  what 
a  large  part  jealousy  and  pistols  have  in  the  love  making  of  the 
mountaineers. 

Included  in  this  volume  is  "Hell  fer-Sartain"  and  other 
stories,  some  of  Mr.  Fox's  most  entertaining  Cumberland  valley 
narratives. 

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NOVELS   OF  SOUTHERN    LIFE 

By  THOMAS  DIXON,  JR. 

ftfgy  be  had  wherever  books  are  sold.       Ask  for  Grossst  &  Dunlap's  list 

THE   LEOPARD'S   SPOTS;        A    Story   of   the    White   Man'* 
Burden,  1865-1900.     With  illustrations  by  C.  D.  Williams. 

A  tale  of  the  Sonth  about  the  dramatic  events  of  Destruction. 
Reconstruction  and  Upbuilding.  The  work  is  able  and  eloquent  and 
the  verifiable  events  of  history  are  followed  closely  in  the  develop* 
ment  oi  a  story  full  of  struggle. 

THE  CLANSMAN.    With  fflustr  '!„,  •*  by  Arthur  I.  Keller. 

While  not  connected  with  it  in  -^  jy,  this  is  a  companion  vol- 
ume to  the  author's  "epoch-making  ^tpry  The  Leopard's  Spots.  It 
is  a  novel  with  a  great  deal  to  it,  and  which  very  properly  is  going  to 
interest  many  thousands  of  readers.  *  *  *  It  is,  first  of  all,  a  forceful, 
dramatic,  absorbing  love  story,  with  a  sequence  of  events  so  surprising 
that  one  is  prepared  for  the  fact  that  much  of  it  is  fouucled  ou  actual 
happenings;  but  Mr.  Dixon  has,  as  before,  a  deeper  purpose — he  has 
aimed  to  show  that  the  original  formers  of  the  Ku  Klux  .Klan  were 
modern  knights  errant  taking  the  only  means  at  hand  to  right 
intolerable  wrongs. 

THE    TRAITOR.    A  Story  of  the  Fall  of  the  Invisible  Empire. 
Illustrations  by  C.  D.  Williams. 

The  third  and  last  book  in  this  remarkable  trilogy  of  novels  relate 
ing  to  Southern  Reconstruction.  It  is  a  thrilling  story  of  love,  ad- 
venture, treason,  and  the  United  States  Secret  Service  dealing  with 
the  decline  and  fall  of  the  Ku  Klux  Klan. 

COMRADES.    Illustrations  by  C.  D.  Williams. 

A  novel  dealing  with  the  establishment  of  a  Socialistic  Colony 
upon  a  deserted  island  off  the  coast  of  California.  The  way  of  dis- 
illusionment is  the  course  over  which  Mr.  Dixon  conducts  the  reader. 

•THE   ONE   WOMAN.    A  Story  of  Modern  Utopia. 

A  love  story  and  character  study  of  three  strong  men  and  two  fas- 
cinating women.  In  swift,  unified,  and  dramatic  action,  we  see  So* 
cialism  a  deadly  torce,  in  the  hour  of  the  eclipse  of  Faith,  destroying 
the  home  life  and  weakening  the  fiber  of  Anglo  Saxon  manhood. 

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GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  526  WEST  26th  ST.,  NEW  YORK 


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